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PAULINE  FORE  MOFFITT 
LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
GENERAL  LIBRARY.  BERKELEY 


//z  J  . 


A  PORTRAIT  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 
IN  A  STUDY  OF  HIS  WORK 


A  PORTRAIT  OF  GEORGE 
MOORE  IN  A  STUDY  OF 
HIS  WORK         M         jir  •       jr 


BY 

JOHN  FREEMAN 


NEW  YORK 

D  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


Printed  in  England 


It  were  a  kind  of  treason  to  remove  the 
imperfections  from  me,  vvliich  in  me  are 
ordinary  and  constant.  .  .  .  Do  I  not  lively 
display  my  selfe  ?  That  sufficeth  :  I  have  my 
will :  All  the  world  may  know  me  by  my 
booke,  and  my  booke  by  me. — Montaigne. 


PAOB 

CHAPTER       ONE.  MAYO        .         .         .         .  .        1 

TWO.  A  SENSITIVE  PLANT      .  .       31 

THREE.  NATURALIST  OR  REALIST  .       63 

FOUR.  NON  DOLET!    .         .         .  .128 

FIVE.  THE  TERMLESS  JOURNEY  .     183 

SIX.  A    WANDERING  MIND    .  .     217 

A  BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  THE  WORKS  OF  GEORGE 

MOORE.     Compiled  by  Henry  Danielson     .         .     231 


INTRODUCTION 

FASCINATING  as  the  art  of  portraiture  may  be,  it 
is  yet  more  difficult  than  fascinating  when  the 
medium  is  not  the  brush  or  the  pencil,  but  the  twenty- 
six  letters  of  the  alphabet.  The  difficulty  does  not 
arise  from  the  poverty  but  from  the  richness  of  the 
medium,  from  its  subtlety  and  confusions,  hints  and 
associations,  from  its  uncertainty  as  well  as  from  its 
simplicity,  from  its  manifest  variability  as  well  as  from  its 
secret  rigidity.  The  ideal  craftsman— to  disclaim  a  higher 
term — must  needs  subdue  himself  to  his  subject,  and  yet 
without  the  intensest  realization  of  himself  he  cannot 
realize  his  subject;  and  hence  the  result  of  his  labours, 
patient  and  faithful  though  they  be,  may  appear  as  much 
a  portrait  of  himself  as  of  his  sitter.  And  if  he  practise 
his  hand  upon  several  subjects  his  facility  may  show  itself 
in  nothing  more  plainly  than  in  the  involuntary  portrayal 
of  his  native  characteristics,  and  a  mere  generalizing 
tendency  so  far  as  his  sitters  are  concerned.  His  only 
advantage  is  that  he  need  not  consult — as  must  the  artist 
with  the  brush — the  convenience  or  even  ask  the  consent 
of  the  subject ;  but  since  that  advantage  does  not  affect 
the  present  occasion,  I  do  not  dwell  upon  it  here. 

But  the  fortunate  artist  with  the  brush  may  achieve 
at  least  an  obvious  likeness  to  the  obvious  features,  and 
whatever  greater  success  he  aims  at  he  will  not  inevitably 
forego  this  easier  success  ;  for  the  poorest  of  painters  does 
not  fail  absolutely  if  he  has  skill  enough  to  achieve  a 
superficial  similarity.     There  sits  his  victim  in  the  flesh,  or 


walks  between  fields,  speaks,  meditates — observable,  amen- 
able and  at  worst  to  be  rendered  as  a  piece  of  still  life. 
Far  different  is  the  task  of  literary  portraiture.  It  is  not 
the  face  that  has  to  be  presented — nor,  will  the  painter 
retort,  is  that  the  mere  task  for  my  brush.  It  is  the 
character,  the  spirit,  the  inward  history  that  must  be 
expressed  or  suggested — and  this,  the  painter  cries 
again,  this  is  the  task  of  my  brush  also.  But  the  literary 
craftsman  will  point  out  that  the  painter  has  one  great 
advantage,  the  advantage  of  working  upon  visible  physical 
characteristics,  whereas  for  himself  there  are  but  the 
invisible  and  disputable  mental  characteristics.  Intelligent 
readers  of  a  certain  writer  will  not  agree  upon  the  exact 
proportions  of  the  individual  and  the  common,  the  new 
and  the  old,  the  spontaneous  and  the  mechanical  parts  ot 
the  subject's  life  and  work  ;  their  perception  of  these  parts 
is  determined  as  much  by  predilections  of  their  own  as 
by  invariable  characteristics  in  the  author.  And  another 
difficulty  is  to  be  noted.  The  painter  with  his  brush  has 
not  to  contend  against  masks  and  disguises  and  cunning 
defensive  make-up ;  and  unless  his  genius  is  splendidly 
wilful,  he  does  not  seek  to  show  that  the  smile  is  false  or 
the  modest  touch  a  trick,  that  frank  eye  shallow  or  that 
candid  forehead  cunning.  But  the  literary  craftsman, 
drawing  his  material  from  a  few  facts  of  external  life  and 
from  a  cloud  of  inferences  touching  the  inner  life,  from 
a  score  of  diverse  books,  from  pages  written  lightly  or 
gravely  during  a  period  of  forty  years,  from  works  of 
imagination,  of  criticism,  of  reminiscence,  has  no  guide  but 
his  own  poor  intelligence.  His  portrait  may  not  be 
recognizable  by  his  subject — that  is  indeed  probable ;  but 
others  also  may  find  it  wanting  in  verisimilitude.  They 
may  hold  that  all — or  nothing — that  the  score  of  volumes 
tell  of  their  author's  personality  is  really  true  of  him  ; 
they  may  believe  that  things  said  dramatically  are  histori- 
cal, and  things  said  historically  merely  dramatic.     Thus  it 


XI 

is  that  all  that  the  literary  craftsman  may  trust  to  (yet  to 
what  else  should  he  dare  to  trust?)  is  his  own  critical 
imagination.  Doubly  difficult,  then,  is  his  attempt — and 
doubly  desirable.  And  if  the  painter,  seeking  to  end  an 
argument  with  a  flourish  of  his  brush,  cries.  Confess,  now, 
that  the  task  is  an  illegitimate  task,  your  craft,  as  you  are 
pleased  to  call  it,  a  bastard  craft,  neither  portraiture  nor 
criticism,  neither  biography  nor  commentary ;  the  answer 
is  silence  and  argument  is  over. 

But  assume  that  the  painter  forbears  such  a  conclusion, 
the  difficulty  yet  remains.  Assume  that  the  literary 
portrait  is  a  possible  aim,  it  is  not  equally  possible  between 
any  subject  and  any  craftsman.  Pater  may  write  of  Marcus 
Aurelius  and  Watteau,  Carlyle  of  Robespierre ;  but  Pater 
would  have  failed  with  Rabelais  and  Carlyle  with  Donne. 
Antipathies,  when  they  are  precise,  form  the  completest 
barrier  to  divination.  Neither,  however,  will  the  crafts- 
man more  certainly  succeed  if  he  is  completely  subjugated 
by  his  sitter ;  for  resistance  is  as  necessary  to  light  as  to 
heat.  But  it  is  superfluous  to  pursue  this  notion,  since  the 
result  alone  can  show  whether  imperfect  sympathies  needs 
must  mar  a  literary  portrait.  Indeed,  the  only  relevance 
which  these  first  paragraphs  may  claim  is  their  explanation 
of  the  method  adopted  in  this  study  of  George  Moore,  and 
also,  perhaps,  their  assertion  of  the  value  of  that  method 
in  abler  hands  than  mine. 


CHAPTER  I 

MAYO 


1,  who  am  king  of  the  matter  that  1  treat  of, 
and  am  not  to  give  accompt  of  it  to  any  creature 
living,  doe  neverthelesse  not  altogether  beleeve 
my  selfe  for  it :  I  often  hazard  upon  certaine 
outslips  of  minde  for  which  I  distrust  my  selfe  ; 
and  certaine  verball  wilie-beguiles,  whereat  1  shake 
mine  eares.  ...  1  present  my  selfe  standing 
and  lying,  before  and  behinde,  on  the  right  and 
left  side,  and  in  all  by  naturall  motions.  .  .  . 
Loe  here  what  my  memory  doth  in  grose,  and 
yet  very  uncertainely  present  unto  me  of  it. — 
Montaigne. 


OF  all  confessed  egoists  among  English  writers,  none 
has  written  more  fully  or  more  deceivingly  con- 
cerning himself  than  George  Moore.  He  writes,  indeed, 
with  seeming  frankness,  but  that  frankness  must  not  mis- 
lead you  into  forgetting  that  he  studies  himself  anxiously, 
adding  here,  brightening  or  diminishing  there,  and  thus 
applying  to  autobiography  the  spider-like  ingenuity  of  a 
novelist.  Fact  is  to  be  distinguished  from  fiction,  and  yet 
fiction  is  not  to  be  rejected ;  for  in  Moore's  case  it  often 
serves  him  as  images  serve  a  poet.  That  is  to  say,  it  is 
false,  and  yet  more  illuminating  than  a  narrow  truth.  But 
except  for  the  purpose  of  apprehending  the  inward  desire, 
the  mental  attitude,  the  fiction  is  not  available  for  a  por- 
trait. To  say,  for  instance,  that  in  Confessio?is  of  a  Young 
Man  there  is  a  display  of  shabby  dissoluteness,  of  crude 
and  plushy  splendour,  is  to  point  out  something  which 
illuminates  a  certain  aspect  of  Moore's  early  work,  but 
which  is  obviously  remote  from  the  diligence  and  aristo- 
cracy of  his  mind.  Yet  it  would  be  hard  for  the  novelist 
himself,  after  more  than  thirty  years'  acquaintance  with 
his  own  work,  to  affirm  or  deny  the  literary  truth  of  a 
score  of  touches  in  that  early  book  ;  and  I  shall  not  pre- 
tend to  a  greater  skill  than  his  own  in  looking  either  at 
Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  or  another  book. 

Happily,  some  things  are  certain ;  and  of  these  the  first 
is  that  George  Moore  was  born  in  1852  at  Moore  Hall, 
County  Mayo,  Ireland.  It  is  claimed  that  the  family  has 
for  illustrious  ancestor  Sir  Thomas  More,  of  whom  certain 
portraits  have  remained  among  the  family  treasures. 
Curiously,  George  Moore  does  no  more  than  allude  to  the 
lustre  of  this  association,  as  a  foil  to  the  notion  that  Mr. 


Yeats's  belief  in  his  lineal  descent  from  the  great  Duke  of 
Ormonde  was  part  of  his  poetic  equipment.  All  romantic 
poets,  says  Moore,  have  rightly  sought  illustrious  ancestry ; 
in  Mr.  Yeats's  case  the  proof  being,  apparently,  the  exist- 
ence in  his  family  of  spoons  bearing  the  Butler  crest. 
George  Moore,  however,  has  disdained  emphasizing  the 
place  of  that  Mirrour  of  Vertue  in  Worldly  Greatness, 
sometime  Lord  Chancellor  of  England,  in  the  history  of 
his  own  family;  and  it  is  a  fair  conjecture  that  had  Sir 
Thomas  been  executed  for  promoting  the  breach  with 
Rome,  and  not  in  order  (as  has  been  suggested)  to  make 
that  breach  irreparable,  some  musing  upon  the  Lord 
Chancellor's  fate  might  have  been  found  in  Hail  a?id  Fare- 
well. No  better  starting-point  could  have  been  used  for 
his  descendant's  discussion  of  Roman  Catholicism  and  its 
antipathy  to  literature  ;  and  would  not  the  romantic  open- 
ing of  Utopia  have  attracted  the  perpetual  story-teller  of 
our  own  day,  who  is  fain  to  romanticize  whatever  appeals 
to  his  eye  or  memory  ?  And  surely  the  strange  contrast 
between  Sir  Thomas  More's  own  intellectual  freedom  and 
his  intolerance  of  religious  freedom  in  others  might  have 
appealed  to  the  speculative  mind  of  our  novelist.  Heresy, 
says  the  Lord  Chancellor's  historian,  was  naturally  hateful 
to  More,  and  while  his  mind  was  too  clear  to  permit  him  to 
deceive  himself  with  Anglicanism — how  he  could  I  do  not 
know — ^he  attached  himself  with  increasing  determination 
to  the  cause  of  the  Pope  and  the  old  faith.  Attractive, 
then,  is  it  to  think  of  George  Moore  hanging  like  a  dragon- 
fly over  the  still,  pure  pool  of  his  ancestor's  mind,  for 
between  the  two  humanists  there  are  curious  resemblances 
and  divergencies.  George  Moore,  like  the  great  Chan- 
cellor, is  touched  with  intolerance  and  indulgence ;  he 
would  burn  a  contemporary  for  his  stories,  but  not  Verlaine 
for  his  morals ;  and  if  the  torture  of  heretics  at  Chelsea  is 
a  charge  against  Sir  Thomas,  the  dissection  of  Gill  and 
Plunkett  in  the  neighbouring  study  of  Ebury  Street  is  no 


more  pitiful.  Conscience,  in  the  one  as  in  the  other,  has 
urged  the  executioner ;  only,  in  the  latter  case,  conscience 
is  working  through  that  more  fluid  and  unstable  medium, 
the  aesthetic  temperament,  in  which  antipathies  have  more 
than  the  strength  of  principles,  and  integrity  is  at  the 
mercy  of  a  beard,  an  accent,  a  stutter,  a  smile,  a  hand- 
shake, an  idle  reminiscence  or  speculation.  ...  It  is 
possible  to  think  of  a  wholly  Protestant  Sir  Thomas  More, 
but  since  no  man  may  escape  the  influences  of  his  time 
even  while  he  moulds  it,  we  cannot  easily  think  of  him  as 
indifferent  to  religion  and  utterly  disengaged  from  the 
great  question  that  agitated  the  England  of  Henry  VIII. 
But  the  question  of  Catholic  or  Protestant  is  not  an  inevit- 
able preoccupation  for  our  novelist,  and  indeed  it  springs 
from  a  purely  intellectual  or  aesthetic  concern,  namely, 
concern  for  the  development  of  imaginative  literature, 
which  he  finds  with  the  suddenness  of  Revelation  to  be 
incompatible  with  Catholicism.  Pity  it  is,  to  repeat  the 
lament,  that  he  has  not  pondered  Sir  Thomas  More's 
seemingly  easy  reconciliation  of  intellectual  liberty  with 
religious  subordination ;  for  here  he  would  not  be  able  to 
resort,  as  he  has  done  in  later  instances,  to  a  charge  of  dis- 
honesty. Rather  would  he  find  a  singularly  clear  case  of 
the  persistence  of  parallel  loyalties — loyalty  to  the  intel- 
lectual spirit  and  loyalty  to  external  authority;  loyalties 
persisting  throughout  exaltation  and  disgrace,  and  shining 
with  equal  brightness  on  the  scaffold  which  the  true  friend 
of  Erasmus  regarded  with  a  jest.  He  died  as  serenely  as 
any  of  those  he  had  persecuted,  as  serenely  as  any — states- 
man or  artist — will  die  for  the  idea  or  the  image  which  is 
more  than  his  own  life.  'After  he  had  subdued  them,' 
writes  the  author  of  Utopia,  *he  made  a  law  that  every 
man  might  be  of  what  religion  he  pleased,  and  might 
endeavour  to  draw  others  to  it  by  the  force  of  argument, 
and  by  amicable  and  modest  ways,  but  without  bitterness 
against  those  of  other  opinions.' 


6 

If,  however,  it  is  a  fair  conjecture  that  the  rehgious 
difference  prevented  George  Moore  from  hovering  over 
the  Lord  Chancellor's  character,  it  is  fair  also  to  remark 
that  Colonel  Maurice  Moore  has  not  the  same  reason  for 
abstention ;  and  it  is  to  him  that  we  owe  {An  Irish  Gentle- 
man, George  Henry  Moore,  by  Colonel  Maurice  Moore, 
C.B.)  a  more  explicit  reference.  It  is  related,  he  writes, 
that  a  descendant  of  Sir  Thomas  More  settled  in  Mayo 
and  acquired  lands  near  Ballina,  and  it  is  known  that  in 
the  time  of  William  of  Orange,  George  Moore  of  Ballina 
held  the  title  of  Vice-Admiral  of  Connaught ;  his  son  and 
grandson  were  living  in  Ashbrook,  near  Straid  Abbey,  in 
1717. 

In  Colonel  Moore's  book  we  find  other  admirable 
accounts  of  the  Moores.  It  seems  that  the  fortunes  of 
the  family  were  established  by  a  George  Moore,  great- 
grandfather of  the  novelist,  who  ventured  into  Spain  and 
there  became  the  head  of  a  prosperous  Irish  colony.  He 
made  a  great  fortune,  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
pounds,  says  our  novelist,  and  married  an  Irish  Spanish 
woman,  one  of  the  refugees  from  the  penal  laws.  In 
those  days  there  was  great  trading  with  Spain,  and  gal- 
leons had  once  come  floating  up  the  bay,  their  sails  filled 
with  sunset.  Not  only  in  certain  buildings,  it  is  said,  but 
in  flesh  and  blood  also  are  traces  of  Spain  to  be  found  in 
Galway.  '  It  amused  me,'  you  read  in  Vale,  ^  to  think  of 
the  ships  laden  with  seaweed  coming  round  the  Bay  of 
Biscay  from  the  Arran  Islands  to  my  great-grandfather  in 
Alicante,  and  the  burnt  kelp  filling  the  iron  chest  (still  at 
Moore  Hall),  and  quickly,  with  ducats,  and  my  great- 
grandfather returning  to  Ireland,  a  sort  of  mercantile 
pirate  of  the  Spanish  Main.'  Looking  for  a  site  whereon 
to  build  a  fine  Georgian  house, '  he  would  have  built  it  at 
Ashbrook  if  there  had  been  a  prospect,  but  there  being 
none,  he  bought  Muckloon,  a  pleasant  green  hill  over- 
looking Lough  Carra;    and  the  Colonel  mentioned  that 


our  great-grandfather  used  to  sit  on  the  steps  of  Moore 
Hall,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  lake.'  The  house  was  built  in 
1780.  'I  have  travelled  far/  he  is  reported  to  have  said, 
'  but  have  seen  nothing  as  beautiful  as  Lough  Carra.'  .  .  . 
An  elderly  gentleman  in  a  wig  and  a  scarlet  coat — 'it  is 
thus  that  he  is  apparelled  in  the  portrait  that  hangs  in  the 
dining-room,  painted  when  and  by  whom  there  is  no 
record.  In  it  he  is  a  man  of  thirty,  and  when  he  was 
thirty  he  was  in  Alicante.  It  is  pleasant  to  have  a  por- 
trait of  one's  ancestor  in  a  wig,  and  in  a  vermilion  coat 
with  gold  lace  and  buttons,  white  lace  at  the  collar  and 
cuffs — probably,  a  Spanish  coat  of  the  period.  The  face 
is  long,  sheep-like,  and  distinguished — the  true  Moore 
face  as  it  has  come  down  to  us.' 

Who  has  ever  heard,  George  Moore  adds,  of  a  more 
horrible  discovery  than  to  go  blind  in  one's  sleep  .^^  So 
it  was  that  his  prosperity  ended.  *  On  awakening  one 
morning  he  asked  his  valet  why  he  had  not  opened  the 
shutters.  The  servant  answered  that  he  had  opened 
them.  "But  the  room  is  dark."  "No,  sir,  the  room  is 
quite  light."  "  Then  I  am  blind  !  "  '  The  rest  of  his  life 
was  lived  between  priest  and  doctor,  in  terror  of  death. 
Our  novelist  finds  a  significance  in  the  circumstance  of  his 
great-grandfather's  burial,  for  the  blind  man  had  desired 
that  he  should  be  buried  with  his  ancestors  in  the 
Protestant  cemetery  near  Straid  Abbey,  but  he  was  buried 
in  the  Catholic  chapel  at  Ashbrook.  '  The  Irish  Spaniard, 
Catholic  back,  belly  and  sides,  would  not  have  hesitated 
to  ignore  her  husband's  instructions.'  She  wished,  in 
short,  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  had  married  a  man 
of  such  doubtful  Catholicity  that  he  had  chosen  to  be 
buried  in  a  Protestant  cemetery. 

John,  the  eldest  son,  was  concerned  in  the  rising  of 
1798  and  joined  the  French  expedition  which  landed  at 
Killala.  After  a  delusive  victory  he  was  elected  first 
President  of  the  Connaught  Republic,  and  when  his  small 


8 

army  was  overthrown  he  was  only  saved  by  influential 
friends  from  a  court-martial.  Escape  was  planned,  but 
defeated  by  his  own  generosity  towards  a  follower;  and 
he  died  before  his  trial  began. 

Upon  George^  then,  the  honours  and  cares  of  the  family 
fell;  and  his  life  also  has  been  illustrated  by  Colonel 
Moore  and  our  novelist.  He  was,  it  appears,  a  member  of 
the  Holland  House  circle,  a  philosopher  and  historian  of 
the  English  Revolution  and  the  French  Revolution.  He 
married  a  grand-daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Altamont,  a 
capable  woman  to  whom  he  serenely  left  the  conduct  of 
affairs  while  he  pursued  a  student's  life  in  his  library — an 
agnostic  like  his  master  Gibbon,  we  are  told  in  Vale.  He 
had  married  his  wife  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  her 
relation,  Denis  Browne,  who  secured  the  conviction  of  his 
brother  John.  It  was  on  the  completion  of  his  sixty-fourth 
year  that  he  wrote  the  '  Preface  to  my  Historical  Memoirs  of 
the  French  Revolution,  to  be  Published  after  my  Death.' 
He  left  five  hundred  pounds  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
issuing  the  History,  but  it  was  never  published.  '  Having 
written  a  history  of  the  French  Revolution,  impregnated 
with  all  the  feelings  and  sentiments  of  an  Englishman,  and 
written  in  a  style,  I  hope,  purely  and  thoroughly  English, 
I  am  ambitious  it  should  be  read  after  me.  I  have  had  no 
celebrity  in  my  life.  But  a  prospect  of  this  posthumous 
fame  pleases  me  at  this  moment  .  .  .  We  are  so  made 
that  while  we  are  living  we  think  with  pleasure  that  we 
shall  not  be  forgotten  in  our  deaths.'  Is  it  only  in  the 
lineaments  of  a  portrait  which  may  have  been  painted  by 
Wilkie  that  the  Moore  features  may  be  traced  ;  or  is  it  not 
equally  in  the  cadence  of  such  sentences  as  these,  in  the 
serene  simplicity  that  intimates  and  conceals  depth,  that  a 
likeness  between  the  two  George  Moores  may  be  noted  ? 

Of  his  three  sons  the  eldest,  George  Henry,  was'  born  at 
Moore  Hall  in  1810,  and  it  is  his  life  that  Colonel  Moore, 
as  I  have  already  said,  relates  in  An  Irish  Gentleman.     At 


seventeen  he  writes  from  Oscott  College  telling  his  mother 
of  his  interest  in  painting  and  verse ;  he  had  written  a 
poem  of  many  hundred  lines.  The  Legend  of  Lough  Carra, 
which  he  intended  offering  to  Murray  or  Colborne :  and 
already  he  had  completed  Irene  in  five  hundred  lines,  an 
Eastern  Byronish  poem.  'If  I  could  get  one  hundred 
pounds  from  one  of  the  booksellers  for  the  child  of  my 
imagination,  how  happy  I  should  feel  in  buying  you  a  pair 
of  handsome  horses.'  Irene  was  published,  but  there  is  no 
record  of  the  hundred  pounds  or  the  horses,  nor  of  the 
fate  of  The  Legend  of  Lough  Carra^  which  at  any  rate  had 
the  prime  virtue  of  dealing  with  what  the  author  best 
knew  and  loved ;  for  Moore  Hall  stands  just  above  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  a  square  Georgian  house  with  a  great 
flight  of  steps  and  big  pillars  supporting  a  balcony.  The 
house  and  the  lake  dominated  the  young  George  Henry 
Moore,  as  they  dominate  his  son,  for  whom  indeed  they 
have  become  not  merely  a  memory  but  a  symbol,  a 
figure  of  recovered  or  recoverable  Eden.  Time  has  not 
diminished  the  beauty,  for  the  green  slopes,  the  light  and 
shade  holding  planetary  sway  over  the  miles  of  water,  the 
bridge,  the  horses  and  the  men,  have  emerged  as  clear  as 
dawn,  as  soft  as  noon,  as  quiet  as  evening,  amid  the 
stealthy,  slow  deposits  of  sixty  years  of  reflection.  That 
passage  in  Vale  is  famous  in  which  the  author  recalls  his 
journey  to  the  old  home,  a  journey  he  was  loth  to  under- 
take, for  he  could  see  the  wide  long  water,  and  all  the 
slow  curves  of  the  bay  along  Kiltoome  and  Connor  Island, 
with  the  mind's  eye  more  clearly  than  with  the  bodily  eye. 
Ballinafad,  his  mother's  home,  was  near  by,  but  it  was 
become  a  monastery  ;  why  should  he  see  it  again  }  True 
the  old  house  had  not  yet  been  pulled  down  that  cells 
might  be  built  instead ;  in  fact,  the  only  change  would  be 
a  peasant  in  frock  and  sandals  for  a  peasant  in  frieze. 
Well,  the  drive  from  Manulla  to  Moore  Hall  would  show 
him  the  familiar  woods  of  Ballinafad;  and  so  driving  he 


10 

reanimates  the  scene.  Joe  Blake  off  to  Castlebar  with  his 
arm  round  a  servant's  waist ;  the  girls  at  Clogher — Helena, 
Lizzie,  Livy  and  May — gathering  cherries  ...  he  could 
see  the  dead  girls  quite  plainly.  The  trees  at  Clogher 
seemed  not  to  have  grown  a  foot  in  forty  years.  Disagree- 
able hazels  still  hedged  Carnacum  Lake,  and  he  recalled 
how  once  the  trees  were  not  wasted  as  now,  for  they  used 
to  be  sold  to  the  coopers  at  Derrinrush  to  make  barrel- 
hoops.  Endless  the  stone  walls  ;  country  and  people  were 
still  savage ;  and  why  were  there  no  windmills  ?  He 
recalls,  too,  childish  rambles  with  his  governess  through 
the  unpathed  woods,  between  silver  firs  and  rowans :  once 
the  hillside  was  dark  with  adventure  and  mystery ;  and  for 
a  while  he  is  a  child  again,  only  awakening  into  the  denser 
air  of  maturity  at  the  sight  of  the  new  gateway  which  his 
brother  had  removed  from  Newbrook,  a  handsomer  affair 
even  than  he  had  expected  to  see.  Looking  for  a  tall 
laburnum,  whose  slim  slippery  body  had  defied  his  legs  as 
a  boy,  he  could  not  find  it,  but  it  still  lived  in  his  memory 
of  Moore  Hall ;  so,  again,  did  the  lost  hawthorns  and  lilac 
bush,  among  which  he  had  played  at  Red  Indians.  There, 
where  the  lilac  bush  was  once  large  and  leafy,  he  had 
thrown  himself  down,  and  discovered,  it  seemed,  how  to 
be  happy ;  but  the  next  day — he  remembered  it  all  now — 
he  had  asked  Joseph  Applely  why  he  no  longer  wanted  to 
crack  his  whip,  hide  in  the  lilac  bush  or  roll  in  the  hay  ? 
What  Joseph  Applely  replied  can  only  be  imagined.  Tree 
after  tree  was  gone  now,  lilac  and  laburnum.  But  the 
house?  the  steps  alone  were  to  his  taste,  for  he  liked 
brick,  and  houses  that  had  grown  generation  after  genera- 
tion. Nor  did  he  like  plate  glass,  and  he  thought  that  it 
ever  he  should  live  in  Moore  Hall  he  must  have  the 
windows  refurnished  with  the  old  hand-made  glass  with 
rings  in  every  pane. 

It  was  a  much  experiencing   and  much  remembering 
man  that  made  the  visit  described  in  Vale,  and  when  he 


11 

reached  the  house  the  old  fondness  for  it  seized  him ;  the 
whole  passage  showing  how  gravely  and  clearly  the  in- 
stinctive, profound  past  beats  bell-like  and  soft  upon  the 
rounded  consciousness  which  is  George  Moore's  present. 
Going  over  the  house  with  his  brother,  meditating  upon 
changes  accomplished  and  dreamed  of,  upon  the  Adam 
ceiling,  the  open  yard,  the  bathroom  that  had  once  been 
his  father's  dressing-room  (the  sight  of  which  at  once 
recalls  George  Henry  Moore  to  him  and  to  us  as  vividly  as 
aiiy  passage  in  An  Irish  Gentleman),  he  confesses  that  he 
would  not  have  had  the  courage  to  make  those  changes, 
so  real  is  the  memory  of  his  father  sitting  in  the  room;  or 
standing  shaving  while  the  small  George  talked  and 
watched.  It  was  on  such  an  occasion  that  his  father 
asked  him  to  read  aloud  from  Burke,  from  an  edition 
printed  with  long  s's :  and  when  the  boy  stumbled  over 
these,  as  indeed  he  would  do  even  now,  his  father, 
stricken  like  one  who  found  his  son  suddenly  blind  or 
dumb,  appealed  to  the  child's  mother  and  governess : — 
Was  there  ever  another  child  of  seven  who  could  not  read 
Burke  without  faltering  over  the  long  s*s  ?  He  averred 
(and  sincerely  believed),  his  face  still  lathered,  that  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  reading  the  Times  aloud  to  his 
mother  at  breakfast  at  the  age  of  three.  For  days  there- 
after child  and  governess  were  banished  to  the  schoolroom 
to  read  Lingard,  listening  apprehensively  when  Applely 
brushed  the  master's  hat,  and  breathing  lightly  only  when 
the  hall-door  told  that  he  had  gone  to  the  stables.  And 
now  he  could  feel  not  his  father's  ghost  alone,  but  his 
grandfather's  also  animating  the  rooms :  was  it  not  for 
that  reason  that  Moore  Hall  had  always  seemed  strange 
and  '  preoccupied  ' }  No  new  influence  had  touched  the 
house  since  1870,  and  he  would  never  be  able  to  live  in 
it;  for  he  would  always  feel  his  grandfather  sitting  by 
him  and  wondering  that  his  grandson  should  practise  a 
prose  style  so  familiar,  so  unlike  Gibbon's. 


12 

'  My  father  was  too  near  the  Georgian  period  to  appre- 
ciate the  house/  he  murmured  to  his  brother.  An  Irish 
Gentleman  tells  of  that  father,  and  if  it  says  little  of  the 
literary  powers  which  he  transmitted  to  his  eldest  son, 
the  latter  is  yet  sensible  of  them  ;  wondering  how  it  was 
that  his  father  could  so  indifferently  destroy  the  letters  in 
which  his  travels  in  the  East  were  related.  Maria  Edge- 
worth  advised  the  publication  of  these  records  of  travel, 
saying  that  the  man  who  could  write  such  letters  could 
write  anything  he  pleased  and  become  famous.  Fame 
teased  him  not,  and  he  remained,  in  his  eldest  son's 
opinion,  singularly  unconscious  of  the  literary  power  that 
lay  half  kindled  within  him.  He  did  not  love  literature 
for  its  own  sake,  and  George  Moore's  sense  of  this  lack 
caused  separation  between  father  and  son.  Why  not 
make  a  book  out  of  these  }  asked  his  wife  ;  but  he  threw 
the  letters  into  the  fire,  packet  by  packet,  for  he  never 
wanted  to  look  at  them  again.  There  were  drawings,  too, 
in  his  diaries,  drawings  of  women,  and  camels  with  long, 
shaggy,  bird-like  necks,  tufted  and  callous  hides,  '  bored 
ruminants,  the  Nonconformists  of  the  four-footed  world.' 
In  these  precise  outlines  there  is  a  delicacy,  a  beauty 
which  betrays  the  skill  of  a  wise  hand.  Letters,  diaries 
and  sketches  alike  had  their  roots  in  romance.  He  was 
but  twenty-two  when  his  mother  became  aware  of  a  secret 
love  which  he  could  not  conceal  nor  she  approve ;  she 
adjured  him  to  leave  England,  and  in  1832,  declaring  that 
he  would  never  marry — never  !  he  removed  for  five  months 
to  Brussels.  Not  long  after  his  return  to  England  he 
resolved  to  travel  in  the  East,  and  it  is  the  pre  facer  who 
tells  us  in  An  Irish  Gentleman  that  it  was  for  love  of  a  lady 
that  his  father  turned  to  travel,  and  for  love  of  him  that 
she  followed  with  her  husband.  For  two  years  his  diary 
was  forgotten,  and  it  speaks  again  only  to  bewail  the  loss 
of  the  lady.  He  wandered  in  Russia,  through  the  Cau- 
casus, into  Persia,  Egypt,  Syria  and  Greece  ;  showing  in 


13 

the  surviving  pages  of  his  diary  the  instinctive  power  of 
phrasing  which  he  drew  from  his  father  and  passed  on  to 
his  son.  He  speaks  of  sweet  and  solemn  reveries,  of 
burning  dreams,  of  immortal  hours,  in  passages  that  are 
noticeably  echoing,  their  music  magnified  or  diminished, 
in  the  last  pages  of  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life. 

When  he  returned  to  England  he  was  still  but  twenty- 
seven  and  disposed  to  fashion  his  life  on  the  model  of  his 
father's;  and  when  the  historian  died,  in  1840,  George 
Henry  Moore  devoted  himself  wholly  to  hunting  and 
riding.  Not  until  1846,  his  brother  Augustus  having  been 
killed  in  a  racing  accident  and  famine  smiting  the  country, 
did  he  halt  and  throw  himself  with  the  same  impetuosity 
into  relief  work,  the  building  of  a  monastery  and  so  on  to 
the  bewildering,  rootless  and  fruitless  life  of  party  politics. 
He  had  already  won  a  seat  in  Parliament  when  he  married 
Mary  Blake,  in  1851,  but  after  political  disappointments 
which  need  not  be  mentioned  here,  he  resumed  the  acti- 
vities of  a  country  gentleman.  Colonel  Moore  tells  of 
many  of  the  incidents  from  which  his  brother  has  spun 
shining  webs  of  imagination  and  fancy ;  and  to  him  is  due 
the  precise  sketch  of  Joseph  Applely,  prototype  of  the 
mysterious,  pathetic  Mr.  Leopold  of  Esther  Waters,  already 
secretive  and  abstruse,  presented  by  nature  as  a  finished 
model  to  her  artist.  It  was  once  our  author's  luck  (he 
writes  in  Vale)  to  be  thrown  three  times  before  breakfast, 
the  falls  irritating  his  father,  who  declared  to  Applely  that 
no  horse  could  unseat  him ;  but  next  morning  the  boast 
was  avenged,  for  he  too  fell  and  broke  his  collar-bone. 

Of  his  father  our  novelist  speaks  with  detachment 
touched  with  affection.  He  writes  of  his  death  in  1870  as 
he  might  tell  of  the  death  of  an  extraordinarily  well 
realised  character  in  a  book,  saying  that  he  died  of  a 
broken  heart,  and  that  he  would  like  to  believe  that  it 
was  by  suicide,  in  the  Roman  fashion ;  an  inclination  which 
Colonel  Moore  has  refused  to  support.    '  This  tragic  death,' 


14 

he  adds, '  seems  the  legitimate  end  of  a  brave  life ;  and  in 
my  brother's  book  he  appears  as  wonderful  as  any  character 
invented  by  Turgenev.'  The  phrase  is  written  some  forty 
years  after  the  event,  but  is  it  not  characteristic  that  the 
death  of  his  father  affects  him  imaginatively,  and  precisely 
as  the  death  of  Grandet  or  Bazarov  might  affect  him  ? 

It  is  in  Vale  that  the  simplest  and  frankest  account  of 
the  death  and  the  days  following  the  death  of  George 
Henry  Moore  is  found.  His  eldest  son  describes  the 
journey  and  his  own  sensations,  speaking  aloud  the 
thoughts  which  most  of  us  rebuke  into  snake-like  stillness  ; 
adding, '  We  never  grieve  for  anybody  as  we  should  like 
to  grieve,  and  are  always  shocked  at  our  own  absent- 
mindedness.' 

'  I  remember  nothing  till  somebody  came  into  the 
summer-room  to  tell  my  mother  that  if  she  wished  to 
see  him  again  she  must  come  at  once,  for  they  were 
about  to  put  him  into  his  coffin,  and  catching  me  by 
the  hand,  she  said,  "  We  must  say  a  prayer  together." 

*  The  dead  man  lay  on  the  very  bed  in  which  I  was 
born,  his  face  covered  with  a  handkerchief,  and  as  my 
mother  was  about  to  lift  it  from  his  face  the  person 
who  had  brought  us  thither  warned  her  from  the 
other  side  of  the  white  dimity  curtains  not  to  do  so. 

'"  He  is  changed." 

'"I  don't  care,"  she  cried,  and  snatched  away  the 
handkerchief,  revealing  to  me  the  face  all  changed. 
And  it  is  this  changed  face  that  lives  unchanged  in 
my  memory.' — 

'The  one  pure  image  in  my  mind,  the  one  true 
affection,'  he  exclaims  of  his  father,  in  the  heightened 
prose  of  the  Confessions. 

Pride  of  family  is  the  commonest  and  pleasantest  of 
frailties.  George  Moore,  who  has  become  so  acutely 
sensible  of  the  difference  between  himself  and  his  con- 
temporaries, and  loves  to  assert  a  no  less  marked  distinction 
between   himself  and    his   brother,    is  not   without   the 


15 

common  pride.  Men  are  seldom  reluctant  to  recall,  to 
exalt,  to  illustrate  the  casual  eminence  of  their  ancestry  ; 
conspicuous  beauty,  wealth,  courage  and  intelligence — 
these,  and  in  this  order,  are  the  chief  gratifications  of  a 
reverie  over  recent  generations.  It  is  sometimes  with 
an  envious,  sometimes  with  a  humorous  sigh  that  they 
recount  old  splendour  and  excellence ;  even  if,  for 
instance,  it  is  a  sigh  over  the  wealth  that  enriched  not 
me  but  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society.  And 
Moore  is  intimately  aware  of  his  father's  and  grandfather's 
part  in  him.  The  instinct  for  letters  that  distinguished 
the  grandfather,  the  restless  passion  for  experience  that 
marked  the  father,  are  in  him  intensified  and  enlarged. 
The  quiet  instinct  becomes  energetic,  the  restless  passion 
is  new-winged  with  imagination  and  becomes  vicariously 
active.  He  calls  himself  pagan,  but  that  is,  at  least  in 
part,  an  intellectual  delusion  ;  and  he  is  at  times  so  sharply 
concerned  with  religion,  with  religion  in  its  personal  aspect 
only  less  than  in  its  social  and  aesthetic  issues,  that  it  is 
hard  to  forget  that  he  comes,  as  he  loves  to  repeat,  of  a 
merely  shallow-rooted  Catholicism. 

And  like  another  father  and  mother  is  the  Mayo  land- 
scape— the  lonely  face  of  field  and  lake,  the  soft,  green- 
breasted  country,  the  trees  of  the  woods  and  the  reflected 
water-trees,  the  landscape  of  which,  reading  in  almost  any 
of  the  later  books,  you  will  say — a  Corot !  a  Moore !  so 
finely  has  it  impressed  itself  in  those  admired  paintings 
and  in  this  prose.  The  movement  of  the  prose,  the  undu- 
lations never  wandering  past  control,  the  unheightened 
and  unlapsing  phrasing,  the  colour  and  the  quietness,  the 
simplicity,  the  depth,  the  brightness — all  these,  the  mere 
names  of  qualities,  as  trees  are  mere  names  of  mysteries, 
are  the  artist's  rendering  in  his  proper  medium  of  that 
which  his  youth  has  breathed,  and  which  was  in  his  veins 
before  consciousness  awoke.  Supremely  interested  in 
himself,   he   is   therefore   interested   in   his  progenitors. 


16 

although  without  the  egoism  of  regarding  them  as  his 
precursors ;  and  the  tendency  to  reverie  over  childhood, 
which  his  later  books  reveal,  is  directed  almost  as  much 
towards  his  father  and  grandfather  as  towards  the  infant 
George.  The  mind  of  a  pure  artist  is  not  to  be  tethered 
nor  its  flight  foretold ;  and  if  it  be  said  that  this  reverting 
of  the  eyes  to  youth  was  not  to  be  expected  from  the 
creator  of  Esther  Waters  and  the  author  of  Evelyn  Innes,  I 
can  but  answer  that  it  is  none  the  less  natural  and  uncon- 
trollable. And  who  so  well  as  Moore  could  become  an 
English  AksakofF,  or  to  what  finer  devotion  might  his 
powers  be  yielded  ?  Aksakoff  has  clothed  with  new  life 
his  father  and  grandfather,  and  called  out  of  the  mist  his 
own  early  years  ;  and  might  not  George  Moore,  who  has 
so  often  touched  the  personalities  of  two  generations,  and 
himself  admires  so  justly  the  portrait  of  A  Russian  Gentle- 
man,  enrich  our  literature  with  its  first  complete  history  ot 
a  family,  and  include  such  an  account  of  his  own  childhood 
and  youth  as  made  AksakoiF's  Years  of  Childhood  precious  ? 
Strange  it  is  that  this  kind  of  imaginative  chronicle,  a  form 
in  which  the  English  genius  might  find  unique  liberty, 
should  have  been  so  long  neglected  in  England.  The 
literality  of  Defoe  has  passed  away  without  stimulating  a 
higher  faculty  in  his  successors ;  and  few  indeed  are  the 
attempts  in  a  higher  direction.  Ruskin's  Praeterita,  and 
Mr.  Gosse's  insufficiently  appreciated  Father  and  Son,  are 
isolated  instances  of  what  may  be  achieved ;  and  for  the 
rest } — Even  the  narrowest  form  of  autobiography  is 
shunned,  except  by  those  anecdotal  writers  who  have 
nothing  significant  to  reveal.  I  think  of  Tolstoi  and 
Gorki,  of  Rousseau  and  Goethe,  and  I  wish  in  vain  for  an 
emulous  zeal  in  England.  All  that  another  may  tell  is  as 
nothing  compared  with  what  an  imaginative  artist  may 
tell  of  himself.  St.  Augustine  has  quickened  our  minds 
with  those  touches  which  reveal  what  most  we  need  to 
know — those  episodes,  of  thought  or  action,  which  make 


17 

him  a  man  of  like  passions  to  our  own,  and  thus  he  too  is 
among  the  imaginative  company  of  those  that  have  revealed 
themselves ;  but  wanting  that  revelation,  what  could  his 
personality  count  for  in  our  own  day  ?  It  is  by  his  own 
story  of  his  life  that  that  life  has  been  prolonged. 

George  Moore  has  made  free  with  the  character  of 
others — you  may  charge  it  equally  as  a  fault  and  a  virtue, 
according  as  your  attitude  is  individual  or  social,  aesthetic 
or  moral — and  no  less  candid  concerning  himself;  and  he 
seems  to  me  superbly  gifted  for  such  a  creative  task  as 
others  in  English  letters  have  ignored  or  too  briefly 
attempted.  '  Myself,'  he  says, '  was  the  goal  I  was  making 
for  instinctively,  in  those  early  Paris  days ; '  and  that 
preoccupation  with  personality  is  among  the  chief 
essentials  of  imaginative  autobiography.  He  has  not 
yet  essayed  the  full  desirable  task,  and  his  neglect 
makes  it  necessary  that  something  of  his  early  life  shall 
be  sketched  or  gathered  here,  however  imperfectly  and 
inadequately.  The  need  is  greater  since  so  much  that 
he  now  writes  is  called  out  of  the  dark  backward  and 
abysm  of  sixty  or  fifty  years  ago. 

'  When  I  was  a  small  child,'  he  says, '  I  used  to  go  with 
my  mother  and  governess  to  Carra  Castle  for  goat's  milk, 
and  we  picnicked  in  the  great  banqueting-hall  overgrown 
with  ivy.'  The  memory  of  those  early  excursions  recalls 
those  he  used  to  see ;  Mulhair  recognized  by  his  stubbly 
chin,  Pat  Plunkett  by  his  voice  and  Carabine  by  his  eyes, 
with  Applely  moving  about  in  his  unstarched  collar  and 
too-large  frock  coat.  Clothed  with  mystery  are  the  earliest 
scenes  in  a  child's  life ;  and  the  wonder  has  hardly 
decreased  as  he  thinks  of  the  days  when  he  longed  to 
explore  the  wilderness  of  rocks  at  the  end  of  Kingstown 
Pier,  the  great  clefts  frightening  and  sending  him  back, 
ashamed  of  his  cowardice,  to  where  his  uncles  and  cousins 
sat  listening  to  the  band,  as  Dublin  used  to  do  in  the 


18 

'sixties.  One  day  he  was  bolder,  and  after  descending 
into  that  wilderness  returned  to  tell  how  he  had  met  the 
King  of  the  Fairies  fishing  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  But 
his  relations  were  not  interested  and  thought  him  a  little 
daft ;  and  one  girl  (with  wide  ugly  mouth  and  loud  voice, 
as  he  sees  her  now)  laughed  harshly,  saying,  with  a  touch 
of  prescience,  that  George  could  not  be  taken  anywhere, 
not  even  to  Kingstown  Pier,  without  something  wonderful 
happening.  The  phrase  marks  him  out  for  us.  Such 
gibes  filled  him  with  shame  and  he  resolved  to  shun 
adventures ;  but  notwithstanding  that  resolve  and  subse- 
quent vows,  he  has  failed  to  see  and  hear  as  the  heathen 
do,  and  has  gone  on  meeting  adventures  everywhere. 
That  phrase,  again,  its  truth  and  its  sting,  marks  him  out 
for  us.  Characteristic  is  it  that  he  follows  this  story  with 
an  incident  showing  how,  when  walking  by  the  shore 
with  Mr.  Yeats  and  Mr.  Edward  Martyn,  and  looking  at 
the  sea  moving  against  the  land's  side  like  a  soft  feline 
animal,  he  and  he  alone  saw  three  girls  advancing  into  the 
water,  lifting  their  skirts  high  and  laughing  invitingly ; 
the  boldest  showing  thighs  whiter  and  rounder  than  any. 
A  shy  boy,  he  calls  himself  elsewhere,  and  says  it  is 
difficult  for  him  to  believe  any  good  of  himself.  And 
is  that  lack  of  belief  a  gift  from  nature,  or  was  he  trained 
into  it  by  his  parents  ?  It  seems  that  he  can  trace  his 
inveterate  distrust  of  himself  to  the  years  when  his 
parents  used  to  say  that  he  would  certainly  marry  old 
Honor  King,  a  beggar  woman ;  and  he  came  to  dread  her 
appearance  and  even  her  name,  understanding  that  the 
joke  rested  on  the  assumption  that  nobody  else  would 
marry  such  an  ugly  little  boy.  Happily  we  need  not  call 
for  the  assistance  of  the  newest  psychology  in  determining 
the  root  of  this  shyness,  nor  yet  to  disgust  us  with  an 
explanation  of  another  incident.  It  was  at  the  beginning 
of  his  childhood  that  he  stole  away  one  morning  to  St. 
Stephen's  Green,  inspired  by  an  unaccountable  desire  to 


19 

break  the  monotony  of  infancy  by  stripping  himself  of 
his  clothes,  tossing  them  out  of  reach,  and  running  naked 
in  front  of  his  nurse  or  governess,  screaming  the  while 
with  delight.  Had  he  not  moralized  the  incident  the 
temptation  to  do  so  would  be  irresistible  now : — was 
the  visit  to  Ireland,  which  was  to  produce  Hail  and 
Farewell,  anything  more  than  a  desire  to  break  the 
monotony  of  his  life  by  stripping  himself  again  and 
running,  a  naked  Gael,  screaming  Brian  Boru  ?  There 
is  nobody,  he  adds  again,  that  amuses  one  as  much  as 
oneself.  The  incident  illustrates  my  theme,  and  the 
comment  increases  the  impatience  of  the  cry,  Why  does 
not  Mr.  Moore  write  his  autobiography?  He  had,  even 
as  a  child,  a  curious  and  probing  mind.  He  and  his 
brother  once  built  a  children's  house  high  up  in  a  beech 
tree.  A  quarrel  arose  concerning  the  building,  and  to  get 
his  own  way  George  pretended  not  to  believe  that  his 
brother  loved  him,  and  so  caused  Maurice  to  burst  into 
tears ;  whereupon,  the  elder's  curiosity  being  provoked, 
he  tried  to  think  of  what  could  make  his  brother  cry 
again ;  but  alas,  the  gibe  was  blunted  upon  his  brother's 
indifference.  Looking  back  upon  the  trifle  after  fifty 
years,  the  author  of  Salve  cries.  As  detestable  in  the 
beginning  as  in  the  end!  And  thinking  how  (unlike 
the  Colonel)  he  partook  of  a  boy's  cruelty  and  hunted 
the  laundry  cats  with  dogs,  no  one  corrected  him,  he 
muses,  no  one  reproved  him ;  and  so  he  grew  up  a 
wilding. 

Perhaps  we  shall  do  well  not  to  regard  this  statement 
too  narrowly,  but  there  was  a  happy  wilding  time  when 
his  father's  Croagh  Patrick,  a  famous  brown  horse,  won  the 
Stewards'  Cup.  George  Henry  Moore  and  his  wife  went 
with  the  horse  to  Goodwood,  while  the  small  eldest  son, 
who  had  watched  the  horse  in  his  last  gallops  at  Cliffs 
before  the  race,  stayed  behind  among  the  stable-boys  to 
enjoy  liberty  and  become  familiar  with  that  world  which 


20 

was  to  contribute  so  much  to  the  excellence  of  Esther 
Waters.  Truly  Irish  carelessness,  says  Colonel  Moore  in 
speaking  of  the  surrender  of  his  brother  to  the  stables ; 
but  we  shall  not  regret  it.  Nobody  looked  after  this 
'  little  kid  of  nine,'  riding  as  he  pleased  about  the  country, 
until  one  day  his  liberty  was  ended.  It  was  through  the 
success  of  a  horse  named  Master  George  that  Master 
George  was  snatched  from  the  horses  and  sent  to  school ; 
such,  the  Colonel  remarks,  are  the  ways  of  Providence, 
calling  them  nevertheless  devious.  It  is  the  wittiest 
phrase  in  his  story  of  An  Irish  Gentleman.  Other 
winners  came  out  of  the  stables,  and  one  racing  historian, 
recounting  them,  hazards  the  remark  that  George  Henry 
Moore  would  probably  have  disinherited  his  son  had  he 
foreseen  the  writing  of  such  a  book  as  Esther  Waters. 
Providence,  it  seems,  failed  to  prompt  the  novelist's 
father;  but,  indeed,  Esther  Waters  might  have  been 
written  by  a  disinherited  son,  and  was  actually  written  by 
an  impoverished  son. 

The  merest  tantalizing  crumbs  of  memories  of  horses 
and  hunting  are  given  in  Hail  and  Farewell,  shedding 
brightness  on  the  story  of  the  days  that  were  ended  with 
school.  There  was,  for  example,  a  race-meeting  at 
Castlebar  or  some  neighbouring  town,  with  old  men  in 
knee-breeches  and  tall  hats,  young  men  in  trousers, 
cattle-dealers  in  great  overcoats  reaching  to  their  heels, 
wearing  broad-brimmed  hats,  everybody  with  a  wide  Irish 
grin  on  his  face,  and  everybody  with  his  blackthorn. 
Especially  was  there  a  crowd  watching  a  bucking  chest- 
nut, a  sixteen-hands  horse  with  a  small  boy  in  pink  on  his 
back.  Now  the  horse,  says  Moore,  looking  on  again  with 
the  eyes  of  a  child,  hunches  himself  up  till  he  seems  like 
a  hillock ;  his  head  is  down  between  his  legs,  his  hind 
legs  are  in  the  air,  but  he  doesn't  rid  himself  of  his 
burden.  He  plunges  forward,  he  rises  up,  coming  down 
again,   his   head   between   his  legs;    and   the   boy,  still 


21 

unstirred,   recalls  the  ancient  dream  of  the   Centaur. — 
Bedad,  the  greatest  rider  in  Ireland. 

But  while  the  fight  between  horse  and  jockey  yet 
waged,  George  Henry  Moore  rode  up  threatening  the 
crowd ;  if  the  course  was  not  cleared  he  would  ride  in 
among  them  on  a  great  bay  stallion.  Master  George 
himself  felt  the  pangs  of  fear  as  he  looked  on,  for  even 
then  a  peasant's  life  was  counted  valuable.  And  it 
seemed  that  his  father  was  very  cruel  to  the  poor  boy 
whose  horse  would  not  keep  quiet.  .  .  .  An  equally  vivid 
character  is  cousin  Dan — Dan,  in  his  long  yellow 
mackintosh,  and  tall  silk  hat  covering  the  long  white 
skull  ribboned  by  a  single  lock  of  black  hair ;  the  same 
long  skull  that  George  Moore  has  inherited,  a  long  pale 
face,  and  long,  delicate  woman's  hands.  Craft  and 
innocency  were  mingled  strangely  in  Dan's  face — by 
heaven !  a  Moore  face  truly  previsioned,  you  might  cry, 
looking  from  that  to  this.  Dan  has  his  secure  place  in 
Hail  and  Farewell,  and  is  indeed  the  occasion  of  a  justifi- 
cation which  our  author  usually  disdains  to  give.  To  the 
question.  If  you  respect  your  family  so  much,  why  do  you 
unscarf  Dan's  frailties  ?  he  replies :  '  If  I  did  not  do  so,  I 
should  not  think  of  Dan  at  all ; '  and  what  we  dread  most 
is  to  be  forgotten.  .  .  .  Dan's  love  of  his  Bridget  was  what 
was  best  in  him  and  what  was  most  like  him.  Our 
interest  in  Dan  is  not  lessened  by  knowing  that  the 
writing  of  A  Mummer  s  Wife  was  associated  with  him, 
with  Galway,  and  a  riding  horse  which  Dan  lent  Moore 
— a  great,  black,  should erless  beast. 

But  Oscott  interrupted  the  early  familiarities.  That  a 
boy  should  remember  the  first  sight  of  his  school  is  not 
surprising,  but  it  is  faintly  surprising  that  he  should  note 
now  the  seeming  heartlessness  with  which  he  met  his  father 
and  mother  when  they  bade  him  good-bye.  They  were 
shocked,  but  he  could  only  think  of  the  boys  who  wanted 
to  make  his  acquaintance ;  a  phrase  which  betrays  an  early 


22 

sense  of  importance  in  a  child  of  nine.  Before  the  end  of 
his  first  meal  he  had  become  a  school  character,  and 
thought  it  a  fine  thing  to  offer  to  match  himself  against 
the  smallest  boy  present  in  the  play-room.  George  was 
beaten.  ...  Is  it  not  a  familiar  story  he  tells,  of  a  child  of 
nine  rising  at  half-past  six  and  getting  beaten  if  he  was 
late  for  Mass  ?  Looking  back,  he  perceives  in  others  not 
the  faintest  recognition  of  the  fact  that  he  was  but  a  baby, 
and  he  does  not  pretend  now,  as  men  so  often  pretend  in 
later  years,  that  the  hard  life  was  good  for  him.  'The 
injustice,  the  beastliness  of  that  place — is  it  possible  to 
forget  it.'*'  When  his  parents  visited  him  they  found 
the  high-spirited  child  changed  into  a  frightened  little 
coward,  blubbering  for  home ;  but  he  remained  at  Oscott 
until  his  health  yielded  to  cold  and  hunger  and  floggings. 
Two  years  at  Moore  Hall  followed,  the  best  part  of  his 
childhood,  with  long  days  on  the  lake  and  bird-nesting  in 
the  woods,  and  the  unconscious  laying-up  of  treasures  for 
discovery  later  on.  He  could  learn  nothing  from  tutors, 
and  often  asked  his  mother,  Am  I  really  stupid  ?  without 
getting  a  clear  answer;  and  all  that  an  old  governess 
could  remember  was  that  he  was  the  most  amiable  of 
children. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  he  first  read  Shelley,  during 
a  ride  of  some  sixteen  miles  in  a  C-springed  coach ;  rocking 
about  and  discovering  The  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  little  fat 
volume  with  the  usual  portrait  which  yielded  nothing  at 
all  in  the  world.  The  name  attracted  him,  as  Byron's  did 
also,  and  he  started  to  read  the  English  poets  whose  names 
most  pleased  him.  Readers  of  Avowals  will  remember 
that  Kirk  White  was  an  early  choice.  The  desired  parcel 
arrived,  and  he  could  scarce  find  patience  to  open  it ;  but 
a  line  or  two  was  enough,  and  he  read  no  more  that  day 
nor  any  other.  Shelley  became  the  god  of  his  idolatry. 
He  was  able  to  take  the  book  to  Oscott,  reading  it  in 
secret  while  others  were  at  lessons — they  at  heaven  knows 


23 

what,  George  Moore  at  Queen  Mab.  No  wonder  he  learned 
nothing  at  Oscott ;  no  wonder  that  his  father  was  angered 
at  his  backwardness  ;  no  wonder  that  Shelley  has  remained 
the  chief  of  his  few  poets.  Salve  tells  us  that  the  edition 
of  Shelley  which  he  took  to  Oscott  explained  that  The 
Revolt  of  Islam  was  but  a  revised  version  of  Laon  and 
Cythna ;  and  that  one  day,  coming  from  the  refectory,  he 
said  to  the  prefect  that  he  had  brought  Shelley  with  him 
and,  reading  it  constantly,  had  begun  to  wonder  if  it  was 
wrong;  for  Shelley  denied  the  existence  of  God.  The 
book  was  taken  from  him — a  sacrifice  designed  to  purchase 
the  blessing  of  expulsion,  but  a  vain  sacrifice.  It  was  another 
matter  that  played  a  chief  part  in  his  leaving,  the  in- 
nocentest  of  innocent  affairs  with  a  little  housemaid,  the 
only  thing  he  could  think  of  to  break  the  monotony  of  the 
Oscott  day.  A  scruple  of  conscience  harassed  him  and  he 
wrote  to  his  father  freely,  saying  that  if  the  girl  was  sent 
away  he  would  have  no  peace  and  would  be  obliged  to 
marry  her.  Promptly  did  his  father  gallop  off  to  Clare- 
morris  to  catch  a  train,  and  then  descending,  unexpected, 
upon  the  school,  drew  with  his  gentle  manner  and  em- 
barrassingly clear  eyes  all  the  queer  little  story,  and  the 
threat  which  was  not  meant  seriously.  The  young  novelist, 
you  surmise,  had  been  dramatizing  a  personal  incident  and 
his  own  character,  as  children  and  their  elders  almost 
equally  love  to  do,  and  slyly  exploiting  it.  He  sees 
himself  even  in  those  times  just  as  he  has  ever  been,  very 
provident  about  his  own  life,  and  determined  to  make  the 
most  of  it.  The  girl  was  not  to  be  dismissed  and  this 
prefatory  Memoir  of  My  Dead  Life  remained  a  mere 
sketch,  a  hint,  a  dramatic  titillation ;  ah,  but  there  was 
something  far  more  serious,  and  his  father's  eyes  lost  their 
kindness  as  he  asked :  '  George,  is  it  true  that  you  have 
refused  to  go  to  confession  ? '  It  was  true  :  he  had  found 
nothing  to  confess,  even  after  the  excellent  stimulus  of 
a  flogging.     His  father  agreed  with  the  priest  that  there 


24 

were  always  sins  to  confess  for  him  who  chooses  to  seek, 
and  the  subtle  boy  was  pressed  into  tiny  admissions.  .  .  . 
Was  ever  anything  funnier  ?  George  Moore  being  brought 
to  confess  willy-nilly — George  Moore,  whose  whole  life 
has  been  an  explicit,  unchecked  confession,  and  who  may 
indeed  be  thought  to  have  exceeded  the  demand  of  the 
most  exigent  confessional  in  the  world  ! 

The  boy's  resources  were  yet  deeper :  how  could  he 
confess  when  he  doubted  confession  ?  And  was  that  doubt 
a  fault  in  him  ?  And  dare  he  communicate  when  in  doubt  ? 
Why,  the  priest  himself  was  not  always  a  believer.  After 
a  while,  father  and  son  drove  to  Birmingham  and  talked 
of — Shelley.  His  father  had  but  a  moderate  admiration 
for  Shelley — '  Why  do  you  waste  your  time  learning  bad 
verses .'' ' — but  liked  the  opening  of  Queen  Mab.  A  religious 
discussion  followed  and  the  boy's  admiration  of  his  father's 
intelligence  declined  from  that  moment,  even  while  his 
sense  of  kindness  increased.  .  .  .  George  returned  to 
Oscott  for  the  rest  of  the  term,  but  was  forbidden  to  speak 
to  his  school -fellows.  He  enjoyed  this  outlawry,  but  the 
pleasantest  moment  of  all  was  when  he  asked  permission 
to  say  good-bye ;  and  so  he  left  in  flying  colours,  or  at 
least  flying  the  colours  he  wished  to  fly.  More  than  forty 
years  after  he  recalls  this  affair,  saying  that  he  '  discovered ' 
himself  to  be  a  Protestant  and  proclaimed  his  religious 
conviction  (or  shall  we  say  the  absence  of  a  religious 
conviction  ?)  to  his  parents :  and  while  they  did  not  oppose 
his  claim  to  share  the  faith  of  his  ancestors,  they  did  not 
help  him  to  attain  it.  And  he  will  add  to  this  now  by 
saying  simply :    I  couldn't  breathe  in  Catholicism. 

So  ended  Oscott.  He  had  learned  nothing  there  ;  and 
never  was  he  able  to  learn  anything  he  did  not  want 
to  learn ;  such  things  remain  dead  to  him — as  now.  He 
was  to  suffer  for  many  years  from  the  helplessness  of 
an  overgrown  ignorance,  and  from  the  sharp  perception 
of  th^^t  most  distressing  affliction,  literary  clumsiness.    One 


25 

living  intellectual  interest  was  noticeable  in  the  recalci- 
trant, and  it  is  recalled  in  Ave  as  he  thinks  of  the  priest 
of  Carnacun,  tall,  gaunt,  large-nosed  with  tufted  nostrils  ; 
and  of  that  day  in  the  'sixties  when  the  priest  came  to 
Moore  Hall  in  ragged  cassock  and  battered  biretta  with 
McHale's  Irish  Homer,  saying  that  the  Archbishop  had 
caught  the  Homeric  ring.  But  was  the  Irish  better  than 
the  Greek  ?  Reluctantly  the  priest  answered  no,  and 
read  some  eight  or  ten  lines  of  the  Greek.  The  discussion 
gave  the  priest  an  interest  in  the  boy,  and  it  was  soon 
arranged  that  Father  James  should  teach  him  Latin.  The 
name  Propertius  attracted  him  :  might  he  read  Propertius  ? 
For  aid  he  studied  Caesar  diligently  for  a  month : — in  six 
months  could  he  get  enough  Latin  to  read  Propertius? 
It  would  take  many  years.  But  one  day  the  priest  said 
that  the  time  would  come  when  George  Moore  would  give 
up  hunting  and  everything  for  the  classics.  His  mother, 
hearing  her  elated  son  repeating  this  prophecy,  burst  out 
laughing ;  and  George  surprisingly  adopted  her  casual 
attitude  without  question,  emulation  was  slain  by  a  look, 
and  the  young  scholar  hardly  ever  saw  Father  James 
again,  except  at  Mass.  .  .  .  No,  it  is  not  surprising  if  you 
remember  his  simple  and  sincere  avowal  of  a  great  disbelief 
in  himself. 

When  he  left  Oscott  he  found  Moore  Hall  a  stable,  for 
his  father  was  training  racehorses ;  and  as  he  has  so  often 
done  since,  George  Moore  adopted  the  first  ideal  to  hand, 
as  he  calls  it  in  his  early  prose  ;  a  phrase  which  he  found 
strangely  endurable  nearly  twenty  years  later.  He  rode 
and  hunted  and  aspired  to  fame  as  a  steeplechase  rider. 
What  saved  him  but  his  father's  political  aspiration,  and 
its  fruition  in  a  return  to  Parliament  in  1868  ?  The  home 
was  broken  up  and  George  perforce  gave  up  racing  in 
Ireland  for  idleness  and  art  in  London. 

It  was  from  meeting  Jim  Browne, '  a  great  blonde  man,' 


26 

who  painted  and  talked  about  luxurious  women,  and  from 
that  florid  painter's  opinion  of  the  boy's  sketches,  that 
George  Moore  received  both  impulse  and  discouragement 
in  art.  Humbled  but  aspiring  he  would  follow  his  father 
through  the  National  Gallery,  and  attend  evening  classes 
at  South  Kensington,  vexed  that  his  subaltern  brother 
should  accompany  him.  His  father  must  have  been 
ashamed  of  his  queer,  erratic  son,  he  surmises,  for  we  all 
want  our  children  to  be  respectable  though  we  may  not 
wish  to  be  respectable  ourselves.  .  .  .  He  does  not 
proceed  to  the  reason,  namely,  that  we  do  not  credit 
our  children  with  the  courage  which  dictates  and  supports 
our  small  unconventionalities,  and  instinctively  want  to 
shelter  them  in  the  uniform  of  the  world. 

Hence  it  was,  presumably,  that  his  father  concluded 
that  George  must  be  got  into  the  army  if  the  army  would 
receive  him ;  and  it  was  settled  that  as  Juries  was  eminent 
above  all  men  in  getting  impossible  boys  through  rudi- 
mentary examinations,  Juries  should  exert  his  thaumaturgy 
upon  George  Moore.  At  that  time,  we  learn,  anything — 
even  Mrs.  Juries — was  capable  of  awaking  an  erotic 
suggestion ;  but  no  stimulus  to  military  study  was  strong 
enough  to  touch  him.  So  self-conscious  a  youth  was  not 
likely  to  be  even  half  in  love  with  easeful  anonymous  death 
on  a  battlefield ;  and  never  has  the  mind  of  our  author 
been  reducible  to  a  formula.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
himself  was  his  country,  but  wanting  an  alternative,  for 
all  professions  were  repugnant,  he  was  fain  to  accept  the 
army.  But  he  realized  that  he  could  not  be  put  into 
the  army  without  passing  examinations,  and  the  Sportsman 
helped  him  to  avoid  passing.  His  sporting  predilections 
brought  him  into  touch  with  betting  and  racing  men  and 
their  sumptuous  mistresses  ;  for  we  are  speaking  of  fifty 
years  ago.  But  what  would  happen  to  George,  thus 
neglectful  and  uncontrolled?  The  sudden  death  of  his 
father  in  the  spring  of  1870  suspended  the  answer. 


27 

His  mother  would  have  liked  to  linger  by  his  father's 
grave,  but  he  gave  her  no  peace,  urging  a  return  to 
London :  *  We  cannot  spend  our  lives  here  going  to 
Kiltoome  with  flowers.'  An  atrocious  boy  with  engaging 
manners,  is  his  note  upon  himself,  and  he  adds  that  his 
mother  died  believing  him  to  have  been  the  best  of  sons, 
although  he  never  sacrificed  his  convenience  to  hers.  I 
cannot  determine  precisely  the  value  of  phrases  like 
these,  but  even  an  atrocious  boy  may  be  humanized  by 
regrets.  Regrets,  however,  do  not  seem  to  have  pleaded 
urgently  for  utterance. 

The  return  to  London  was  made  memorable  by  his 
forsaking  Juries  for  the  drawing-class  of  one  Barthe,  to 
which  Whistler  was  a  considerable  attraction.  The  glimpse 
of  Whistler  does  not  please,  and  clearly  is  not  meant  to 
please;  and  Moore  preferred  to  ally  himself  with  a 
smaller  celebrity,  Oliver  Madox  Brown.  .  .  .  The  story 
flows  or  eddies  on  with  incidents  of  riding  and  shooting 
and  the  application  of  a  nickname,  Mr.  Perpetual,  due  to 
his  admission,  or  claim,  of  being  always  in  love.  ^  To  be 
ridiculous  has  always  been  mon  petit  luxe,'  but  I  am  sure 
he  has  never  seemed  ridiculous  to  himself,  and  he  knows 
that  only  the  pompous  are  truly  ridiculous.  Hence,  I 
suppose,  even  a  party  of  officers  and  ladies — a-stench  with 
Victorianism — ending  in  an  affray  with  sword  and  poker, 
is  not  really  ridiculous;  nor  the  notion  of  wearing  for 
painting-robe  the  tea-gown  of  one  of  those  ladies  until 
Jim  Browne  ordered  him  to  discard  it.  At  Jim  Browne's 
heels  the  future  author  of  Helo'ise  and  Ahelard  would 
swing  along  Piccadilly,  Jim  laughing  at  the  lad's  assertion 
that  his  hair  was  yellower  than  his  friend's ;  and  strange, 
and  indeed  thrice  strange,  is  it  to  think  of  George  Moore 
modelling  himself  upon  Jim  Browne,  in  both  inward  and 
outward  aspects,  learning  his  tastes  in  food  and  the  looks 
of  women  and  lap-dog  loves  (the  story  is  a  trifle  tiresome 
even  in  Vale),  and  obsequious  to  his  dictation  in  art.     So 


38 

humble  was  his  obedience  that  for  years  and  years  he 
followed  Jim's  fondness  for  tall  women  with  abundant 
bosoms,  although  in  reality  he  liked  hardly  any,  a  gentle 
swelling  being  enough  for  his  youthful  austerity. 

But  Jim  Browne's  influence  was  suspected  by  George 
Moore's  guardian,  and  Jim  was  driven  to  moralizing,  and 
urged  his  friend  to  shoot  in  Africa  or  Abyssinia  or  seek 
the  source  of  the  Nile.  The  appeal  found  no  response, 
and  the  source  of  the  Nile  slumbered  on  in  unvexed 
obscurity.  It  was  for  art  that  he  thirsted,  and  at  last 
Jim  said,  '  If  you  want  to  learn  painting  you  must  go  to 
France.'  The  call  to  France  is  variously  related  in  the 
Confessions  and  in  Vale,  for  the  later  book  dispenses  with 
the  supernatural  agency  which,  in  the  earlier  account,  was 
needed  to  dispatch  him  to  Paris.  He  experienced,  he 
says  in  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man,  the  phenomenon  of 
echo-augury,  words  spoken  in  an  unlooked-for  quarter; 
and  without  appeal  to  reason  they  impelled  belief.  The 
echoing  of  one  word,  France,  convinced  him  that  he  must 
go  to  France  and  become  French.  A  more  conspicuous 
and  valuable  instance  of  the  Pauline  phenomenon  is 
recalled  in  Hail  and  Farewell,  and  may  be  noted  later. 

For  a  while  he  still  hung  back,  disobedient  to  the 
heavenly  echo.  He  was  heir  to  a  considerable  property, 
and  divined  all  that  money  meant.  Lake,  mountains,  and 
woods  uttered  but  one  word — Self,  the  Self  upon  whose 
creation  his  mind  was  resolved ;  truly  a  poignant  psycho- 
logical moment.  Self  was  to  be  created,  expressed  and 
nourished  by  art;  and  he  was  eighteen,  with  life  and 
France  to  come.  Art  dominated  all.  Shelley  had  made 
him  an  atheist,  and  he  is  amusing  in  his  account  of  a 
declaration  to  his  mother  that  he  declined  to  believe  in 
God.  He  had  expected  to  paralyse  the  household,  but 
his  mother  shocked  him  with  the  indifference  of  her  tone 
— 'I  am  sorry,  George,  it  is  so.'  It  is  odd  to  read  in 
Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  that  the  author  hungered  after 


29 

great  truths,  the  reading  of  Middlemarch  and  The  History 
of  Civilization  being  among  his  remembered  spiritual 
moments.  He  preserves  a  different  touch  of  the  Victorian, 
again,  when  he  writes  that  while  he  waited  for  his  coach 
to  take  a  party  of  '  tarts '  and  '  mashers  '  to  the  Derby, 
he  would  read  a  chapter  of  Kant's  Critique  of  Pure  Reason. 
He  loved  the  abnormal,  it  seems,  the  self-conscious  artist 
in  him  already  fingering  the  tangled  threads  of  person- 
ality. He  boasted  of  fictitious  dissipations,  and  his  mother 
expected  ruin ;  but  ruin  passed  harmless  beneath  George 
Moore*s  windows  as,  standing  there  in  the  morning 
twilight,  he  watched  the  moon  and  repeated  Shelley 
and  dreamed  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  SENSITIVE   PLANT 


I  can  never  mutinie  so  much  against  France  but 
I  must  needes  looke  on  Paris  with  a  favourable 
eye  :  It  hath  my  hart  from  infancy,  whereof  it  hath 
befalne  me  as  of  excellent  things.  ...  So  long  as 
she  shall  continue,  so  long  shall  J  never  want  a 
home  or  retreat  to  retire  and  shrowd  my  selfe  at 
all  times  :  a  thing  able  to  make  me  forget  the 
regret  of  all  other  retreates. — Montaigne. 


AN  Irishman  must  fly  from  Ireland  if  he  would  be 
himself,  Moore  writes  in  1911,  when  he  begins 
to  think  of  the  soul  he  had  lost  in  Paris  and  London, 
wondering  if  it  is  indeed  true  that  whoever  casts  off 
tradition  is  like  a  tree  transplanted  into  uncongenial  soil. 
But  in  1888  such  questioning  was  impossible,  for  the  ten 
years  spent  in  France  were  still  intoxicatingly  remem- 
bered ;  and  he  notes  that  the  most  impressionable  time 
of  his  life,  from  twenty  to  thirty,  when  mind  and  senses 
are  awake,  he,  the  most  impressionable  of  beings,  passed 
in  France.  Nor  was  it  as  an  alien  or  an  indifferent 
spectator,  for  he  strove  to  identify  himself  with  his 
environment  and,  shaking  himself  free  from  race  and 
language,  sought  deliberately  to  recreate  himself  in  the 
womb  of  a  new  nationality.  Time  slowly — yes,  quite 
slowly — revealed  the  failure,  but  George  Moore  himself 
was  half  deceived  into  thinking  it  a  success.  Confessions 
of  a  Young  Man  gives  the  measure  of  that  failure  in  its 
most  immediate  light,  as  well  as  the  frank  story  of  the 
desperate  attempt.  To  his  mother  he  had  avowed  that 
it  was  for  education  that  he  meant  to  go  to  Paris,  rather 
than  Oxford  or  Cambridge ;  he  thought  he  could  educate 
himself  better  in  a  cafe  than  in  a  university. 

It  was  in  art  that  his  immersion  was  complete  and  his 
re-birth  accomplished  ;  and  the  tale  of  that  long-proceed- 
ing change  is  luckily  available.  With  trunks  of  clothes, 
books,  pictures  and  an  English  valet,  he  started  for  Paris  ; 
the  valet,  Mullowny,  becoming  very  soon  the  one  super- 
fluity of  all  these.  Had  Moore  been  an  artist  already 
he  would  not  have  suppressed  the  valet,  but  used  him 
for  delicious  Chorus  in  the  Comedy  of  Paris ;  but  it  is  only 
D  33 


34 

the  mature  artist  that  sees  the  material  nearest  to  his 
hand.  The  valet  might  have  been  at  least  as  much  to 
his  master  as  is  Alec  to  his  auditor  in  A  Story -T eller  s 
Holiday.  The  chance  slipped  away  unperceived,  and 
George  Moore  by  his  Valet  remains  an  imaginary  fragment 
of  biography.  Mullowny,  sick  for  home,  wife,  beer  and 
conversation,  counselled  his  master  to  return  to  England, 
and  when  the  advice  was  refused,  left  him  at  the  end 
of  eight  months  ;  and  Moore  was  glad  to  lose  him.  A 
valet  meant  conformity  to  conventions,  but  the  young 
man  who  sets  out  on  the  great  adventure  of  art  must 
separate  himself  from  all  conventions  ;  and  he  realized 
that  Mullowny  stood  between  George  Moore  and  the 
artist.  Above  all  he  was  twenty-one  and  wished  to  be 
himself,  and  he  felt  that  to  be  himself  he  must  live  the 
physical  as  well  as  the  intellectual  life  of  the  Quarter. 
So  adroitly  is  a  confession  insinuated  into  the  story  of 
Vak. 

His  first  business,  then,  was  the  discovery  of  a  cafe 
where  the  evenings  could  be  passed.  Was  it  instinct 
or  chance — was  it  another  echo-augury — that  brought 
him  news  of  the  cafe  in  which  Manet  spent  his  evenings  ? 
The  Nouvelle  Athenes  sounded  in  his  ears  as  though 
invented  to  lure  him  ;  I  can  see  it  now,  he  cries,  the  white 
nose  of  a  block  of  buildings,  stretching  up  the  hillside 
into  the  Place  Pigalle  opposite  the  fountain.  His  retro- 
spective glance  in  1921  is  as  fond  as  it  was  in  1904, 
when  he  first  revised  the  Confessions,  or  in  1888,  when 
the  book  was  first  issued.  He  mixed,  he  says,  with 
many  men  at  the  Nouvelle  Athenes,  with  Manet,  Degas, 
Pisarro,  Renoir  and  Sisley,  and  once  or  twice  talked  to 
Monet  there.  .  .  .  M  have  not  the  least  idea  why  they 
endured  me.  One  thing  I  learned,  and  that  was  from 
Monet,  who  taught  me  to  be  ashamed  of  nothing  except 
being  ashamed ;  yet  who  knows  } '  he  will  add  (and  again 


35 

it  is  the  note  of  1921),  'perhaps  that  was  not  learned, 
but  lay  in  me  all  the  time.* 

The  writers  among  the  group  into  which  he  was  so 
suddenly  and  so  deeply  plunged  were  doubtful  of  their 
own  art,  and  envied  the  art  of  the  painter ;  and  homage 
was  paid  to  the  painters  as  they  trooped  or  sidled  in. 
He  recalls  his  longing  to  be  admitted  to  their  intimacy, 
and  especially  his  shy  regard  for  Manet,  whom  he  had 
begun  to  recognize  as  the  great  new  force  in  painting. 
Evening  after  evening  he  sat  silent  until  at  last  Manet, 
observing  him  correcting  proofs  or  pretending  to  correct 
proofs,  asked  if  the  cafe  talk  did  not  distract  his  atten- 
tion :  receiving  then  for  answer,  '  Not  at  all,  I  was 
thinking  of  your  painting.'  Friendship  followed,  and  in 
the  studio  in  the  rue  d'Amsterdam  he  came  to  understand 
the  real,  the  Parisian  Manet  within  the  blonde,  amusing 
face  and  clear  eyes — face,  beard  and  nose  almost  satyr-like, 
but  with  an  intellectual  expression.  Bad  art,  he  muses, 
reveals  no  personality,  and  is  bad  because  it  is  anonymous  ; 
the  work  of  the  great  artist  is  himself,  and  Manet  was 
one  of  the  greatest  artists.  Manet  was  a  rich  man,  in  dress 
and  appearance  an  aristocrat ;  and  for  the  sake  of  his 
genius  he  was  obliged  to  forsake  his  own  class  and  spend 
his  evenings  in  the  cafe  of  the  Nouvelle  Ath^nes  among 
artists. 

Of  Manet's  art,  and  of  his  almost  alone,  Moore  speaks 
with  unrestrained  praise  and  fondness ;  and  was  it  not 
partly  because  Manet  urged  revolt  against  the  old  that 
this  younger  rebel  declared  and  maintained  such  a 
loyalty  of  admiration  ?  because  '  Adam  standing  in  Eden 
looking  at  the  sunset  was  not  more  naked  and  unashamed 
than  Manet '  ?  A  pathetic  hint  falls  across  the  tribute 
when  he  speaks  of  Renoir  and  Manet.  He  suspects 
Renoir's  art  of  a  certain  vulgarity,  yet  Manet's  last 
pictures  were  influenced  by  Renoir.  Less  pathetic,  and 
not  less  significant,  is  the  fact  that  Manet  never  sold  a 


36 

picture  during  the  years  that  Moore  knew  him ;  the  price, 
he  adds,  that  one  pays  for  shamelessness,  for  truth, 
sincerity,  personality,  is  public  neglect. 

But  I  am  wrong  to  dart  thus  at  Manet,  instead  of 
remarking  first  that  Moore  approached  the  Nouvelle 
Ath^nes  circle  with  no  other  pretension  than  the  slender 
one  assumed  by  any  disciple  in  Julien's  studio.  And  1 
must  remark,  also,  that  the  tribute  to  Manet,  like 
the  tribute  to  others  whose  names  brighten  Moore's 
reminiscence,  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  Confessions, 
which  immediately  reveals  the  author's  sensations  and 
ideas,  but  in  Hail  and  Farewell ;  and  the  slow  emergence 
of  these  recognitions  is  a  thing  to  be  pondered  over  in 
any  account  of  Moore's  mental  progress. 

A  typical  meridional  Julien,  as  Moore  found  him, 
with  a  large  stomach,  dark,  crafty  eyes,  seductively 
mendacious  manner  and  sensual  mind.  Julien  consciously 
made  use  of  his  pupil,  and  the  pupil  unconsciously  made 
use  of  Julien.  Remember  that  Moore  was  twenty  and 
talkative,  eager  and  diffident,  that  his  knowledge  of 
French  had  been  picked  up  in  three  months,  and  you 
will  have  a  glimpse  of  the  comedy  of  the  situation. 
The  studio  exhaled  a  subtle  mental  pleasure — the  sense 
of  sex;  but  although  that  sense  was  very  dear  to  him, 
he  is  explicit  in  affirming  that  he  did  not  fall  in  love,  and 
yet  more  definite  in  affirming,  with  the  detachment 
which  has  grown  in  him  and  helped  to  make  him  an 
artist,  that  he  was  willing  to  stray  a  little  from  his  path, 
but  never  further  than  a  single  step,  which  he  could 
retrace  when  he  pleased. 

Of  Julien  a  fuller  and  more  amusing  story  is  given  in 
Lfipressions  and  Opinions,  and  it  is  necessary  to  refer  to  it 
in  order  to  understand  into  what  strange  scholarship  the 
new  disciple  was  inducted.  Julien,  as  Moore  came  to  see 
him,  was  the  most  notorious  and  powerful  personage  in 
the  art  world  of  Paris,  a  dizzy  position  for  a  man  who  was 


37 

once  a  shepherd  of  extraordinary  physical  strength,  and 
free  to  choose  between  fame  as  a  wrestler  and  fame  as  a 
painter. — No,  he  did  not  toss  for  the  decision ;  the  village 
settled  his  future  by  sending  him  to  Paris,  where  he 
pretended  just  sufficient  talent  to  obscure  the  truth. 
Failure  as  an  artist  diverted  him  into  the  life  of  a  show- 
man, and  at  the  end  of  a  season's  wrestling-matches 
Julien,  as  successful  as  Barnum,  had  accumulated  a  small 
fortune,  and  as  quickly  lost  it  again.  Why  not,  then, 
open  a  studio.'*  He  opened  a  studio,  and  strove  against 
envious  Fate  with  small  luck  until  he  bethought  himself 
of  the  power  of  medals.  Since  my  countrymen  love 
medals,  he  cried,  I  will  give  medals — a  medal  every 
month  for  the  best  drawing  or  painting;  a  medal  and 
a  hundred  francs.  It  is  not  hard  to  believe  that  in 
three  months  the  Salon  Julien  burst  its  doors  and  en- 
gulfed all  Paris ;  in  three  years  M.  Julien  was  a  limited 
company,  and  the  late  wrestler  the  managing  director 
at  a  large  fee.  The  medal  had  triumphed.  That  the 
triumph  was  not  eternal  matters  nothing;  which  among 
human  institutions  is  eternal?  The  modern  Tamerlane 
had  his  day.  When  Moore  wrote  his  account  of  the 
rise  and  fall  of  the  Julien  despotism  he  had  escaped 
from  the  influence  of  the  salon ;  he  could  even  urge 
upon  young  English  painters  the  wisdom  of  staying  at 
home,  avowing  himself  anxious  to  save  them  from  the 
commercialism  of  Julien's  studio,  and  declaring  it  to  be 
unnecessary  for  them  to  learn  in  Paris.  His  own  ten 
years  were  over;  he  had  escaped  as  by  a  miracle,  and 
he  could  not  help  reviling  the  prison  of  French  art.  He 
even  pleads  for  insularity,  saying  that  only  by  being 
parochial  in  the  first  instance  may  any  man's  art  become 
ultramontane  in  the  end.  It  was  not  the  course  of  his 
own  mind,  and  the  acerbity  of  his  reflections  upon  Julien 
is  in  the  main  due  to  his  tardy  perception  that  those 
ten  years  were  wasted.     But  I  think  it  was  also  due  to 


38 

the  fact  that  he  could  not  forgive  Julien  for  thrusting 
Marshall  upon  him,  as  he  could  not  forgive  himself  for 
submitting  to  Marshall.  In  a  moment  we  shall  be  con- 
sidering his  ten-years  adventure  in  relation  to  his  calling 
as  a  writer,  but  when  he  made  his  attack  on  the 
commercialism  of  French  art  he  had  scarcely  written  a 
line  except  in  a  cosmopolitan  prose. 

Henry  Marshall  (in  the  revised  edition  of  Confessions  of 
a  Young  Man  he  becomes  Lewis  Ponsonby  Marshall)  is 
the  bore  of  the  earliest  account  of  Paris  days.  Would 
not  most  readers  of  the  sketch  be  surprised  to  know 
that  the  name  concealed  a  real  person  who  died  some 
years  ago  and  therefore  must  have  lived  ?  Maybe  Lewis 
Ponsonby  Marshall  sat  for  the  portrait  of  Lewis  Seymour, 
of  whose  shabbiness  his  own  is  a  faithful  forecast.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  memory,  and  certainly  art,  matures  with  years, 
and  the  slightly  amplified  account  of  the  first  meetings 
between  Moore  and  Marshall  is  witness  to  the  immense 
development  from  the  poor  skill  of  Confessions  to  the 
mastery  of  reminiscence  which  fills  Hail  and  Farewell. 
Indeed,  this  is  the  sole  interest  by  which  the  unfortunate 
Marshall  survives.  He  had  come  from  Brussels  to  Paris 
with  a  beautiful  prostitute,  Alice  Howard,  who  could 
not  refrain  from  exclaiming  as  she  watched  her  lover, 
'  What  a  toff  he  is ! '  Not  less  surely  did  his  manner, 
his  looks,  his  shallow  brightness  of  talent,  captivate 
the  novice  who  strove  to  copy  his  speech  and  bearing, 
yet  knowing  that  his  own  was  the  rarer  nature.  But  it 
was  no  unconscious  subordination,  for  Moore  was  watching 
life  with  the  patience  of  a  cat  before  a  mousehole, 
picking  a  single  phrase  out  of  hours  of  vain  chatter ; 
he  used  Marshall  as  he  used  all  those  with  whom  he 
was  brought  into  close  contact.  The  avowal  was  made 
in  1888,  but  how  much  more  completely  true  it  is  now, 
every  reader  will   know.     Moore's  art   has  always   been 


39 

concrete  rather  than  aery  in  its  essentials.  Yet  it  is 
with  no  contradiction  but  in  absolute  candour  that  he 
avers  that  he  did  not  form  relationships  with  designs ; 
never  has  he  given  a  thought  to  the  advantage  that 
might  accrue  from  friendship.  He  read  books  and 
friends  with  an  equally  disinterested  passion,  discarding 
each  when  he  had  eaten  his  hunger  away. 

Moore  says  these  things  of  himself  in  the  revised 
Confessions^  but  in  the  first  edition  they  were  said 
dramatically  in  the  name  of  Edwin  (once  Edward) 
Dayne,  a  fact  which  need  not  deceive  us  into  ignoring 
their  verisimilitude.  .  .  .  He  lived  at  this  time  in  an 
old-fashioned  hotel  kept  by  an  enterprising  Belgian, 
and  he  is  at  pains  to  describe  his  first  Parisian  friend,  a 
little  fat  neckless  man — Duval  in  Confessions,  Lopez  in 
Vale ;  the  author  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  plays,  not  one 
of  which  had  been  produced  for  twenty  years.  He  had 
written  plays  in  collaboration  with  everybody,  even 
with  Dumas  pere  and  Gautier,  and  the  mysteries  ot 
collaboration  thickened  halo-wise  around  his  head  as 
the  young  stranger  questioned  him  in  bad  French,  out  of 
a  rapture  of  admiration  and  respect.  The  significance  ot 
this  acquaintance  appears  when  you  find  later  on  that 
these  radiant  mysteries  allured  George  Moore  with  the 
question.  Why  not  write  a  comedy  }  No  matter  that  his 
writing  had  been  a  few  ill-spelt  letters.  With  Marshall 
for  hero  and  Alice  for  heroine,  with  three  weeks' 
fermentation  and  the  growth  of  a  plot,  there  remained  but 
one  enormous  difficulty — how  to  achieve  a  prose  dialogue  } 
At  last  he  discovered  Leigh  Hunt's  edition  of  Congreve 
and  other  Restoration  dramatists,  and  the  fruit  of  study 
was  a  comedy  in  three  acts  with  the  abstract  title, 
Worldliness.  A  bad  play  it  was,  but  he  thinks  not  nearly 
as  bad  as  might  be  imagined ;  and  in  that,  let  us  assume, 
lies  the  reason  that  his  precipitate  return  to  London  to 
get  it  produced  was  fruitless.     As  fruitless  was  his  attempt 


40 

with  another  play,  and  with  a  closer  view  of  the  em- 
barrassments of  the  dramatic  writer  he  returned  to  Paris. 
The  bibliography  will  show  how  often  the  desire  of  the 
theatre  has  irked  him,  and  I  must  speak  of  other  plays 
later  on ;  here  we  need  but  record  the  attempt  and  the 
failure,  and  the  unregretted  absence  of  the  early  texts. 

From  Vale  you  are  permitted  to  gather  that  the  return 
to  England  arose  from  a  pining  for  London  and  English 
food  and  speech,  and  his  mother's  house,  where  Millais 
used  to  visit.  Edward  Martyn  also,  he  remembers,  knew 
him  during  the  eighteen  months  of  his  stay ;  and  Edward, 
he  declares,  is  right  in  saying  of  him  then  that  he 
developed  from  a  mere  sponge  to  the  vertebrae  and  up- 
wards, for  in  those  days  he  worked  and  grew  unconsciously. 
But  all  the  while  Lewis,  in  Paris,  was  still  shaping  him  in 
London,  and  when  he  returned  to  Paris  he  was  so  closely 
fashioned  in  his  friend's  likeness  that  Julien,  catching 
sight  of  him  on  the  boulevard,  thought  it  was  Lewis 
himself.  Lewis  he  found  plus  amoreux  que  jamais,  a  young 
god  wallowing  in  finest  linen  and  in  moral  depths  into 
which  we  need  not  very  carefully  peer ;  we  need  but  note 
that  Moore  began  to  despise  him,  but  nevertheless  passed 
months  in  his  company  pursuing  art  and  dissipation.  It 
was  to  Lewis  Marshall  or  Alice  Howard  that  he  owed  his 
acquaintance  with  la  belle  Hollandaise,  who  passed  from 
him  with  an  enigmatic,  I  don't  know  what's  going  to 
happen  to  me  !  '  She  passed  out  of  my  life  for  ever,  and 
if  I  relate  the  incident  of  our  meeting  it  is  because  I 
would  pay  tribute  to  her  who  revealed  sensuality  to  me  * — 
a  phrase  which  prompts  a  question  whether  our  author 
might  not  have  become  a  self-sacrificing  scientist  instead 
of  a  self-sacrificing  artist.  The  young  men  prided  them- 
selves on  the  versatility  with  which  they  used  the  language 
of  the  fence's  parlour  and  the  language  of  the  literary 
salon,  and  appeared  as  much  at  home  in  the  one  as  in  the 
other.     For  the  true  artist,  like  the  false,  is  a  chameleon. 


41 

In  a  terrible  slang  they  shouted  benediction  upon  a  plan 
to  break  into  a  crib,  and  then  fancied  there  was  something 
very  thrilling  in  returning  home  to  dress  for  a  reception 
among  the  elite.  The  story  is  not  entrancing.  Art  and 
Marshall's  poverty  wrought  a  change.  The  amorous 
friend,  who  always  lapsed  into  extremes,  retired  to 
Belleville  and  settled  down  as  a  workman  in  a  china 
factory ;  and  Moore  went  to  see  him  and  related  the  story 
to  Julien.  What  followed  is  not  recounted  in  the  1888 
Confessions  J  but  is  inserted  in  the  revised  edition  and 
enlarged  in  Vale.  The  interpolation  indicates  how 
candidly  the  author  looks  back  upon  himself,  since  it 
explains  that  it  was  no  unprompted  generosity  that  led 
to  his  offer  to  make  himself  responsible  for  Marshall. 
Julien,  it  seems,  urged  him  to  save  Marshall  from  living 
as  a  workman,  and  either  make  him  an  allowance  or  share 
rooms  with  him  ;  a  suggestion  that  rather  shocked  one 
who  was  concerned  with  his  own  genius  more  than  with 
fostering  another's.  But  he  yielded,  dismissed  his  valet, 
and  welcomed  Marshall.  It  was  unpleasant,  he  reflects, 
to  have  a  window  opening  only  to  an  unclean  prospect  of 
roofs,  to  rise  at  seven,  to  work  ten  hours  a  day,  to  forego 
all  pleasures — for  the  sake  of  a  friend  with  whom  he  had 
entered  upon  an  artistic  duel.  It  was  a  year  of  great 
passion  and  great  despair,  defeat  falling  upon  our  author 
by  inches,  like  the  pendulum  in  the  pit ;  and  how  could 
such  a  mind  help  suffering,  so  intensely  alive  (as  he  sees 
it  later)  to  all  impulses,  so  unsupported  by  any  moral 
conviction.''  His  own  facility  was  unequal  to  his  rival's, 
although  in  character  and  feeling  his  work  was  more 
individual  and  refined ;  but  Marshall  showed  himself 
singularly  capable  of  education,  while  we  have  Moore's 
repeated  word  for  it,  and  the  slow  development  of  his  own 
excellence,  that  the  truer  artist  was  not. 

For  nine  months  the  struggle  continued — vainly;  and 
the  burden  of  unachieved  desire  became  intolerable.     All 


42 

that  he  wanted  was  art,  and  art  was  taken  from  him.  At 
last,  '  I  laid  down  my  charcoal  and  said,  I  will  never  draw 
or  paint  again.  That  vow  I  have  kept.'  And  the  rest.'* 
To  the  question,  What  should  he  do }  there  was  no  prompt 
answer.  He  strove  to  read,  but  it  was  impossible  to  sit 
at  home,  within  earshot  of  the  studio,  and  all  the  memories 
of  defeat  still  ringing.  Marshall  flaunted  success  in  his 
face ;  his  good  looks,  his  talents,  his  popularity,  showing 
no  pity  or  comprehension.  It  was  not  his  vanity  that 
distressed  Moore,  for  that  is  rarely  displeasing  to  him 
and  sometimes  is  attractive ;  it  was  an  insistence  and 
aggressiveness  which  made  the  defeated  feel  only  his 
serviceableness  to  the  other's  talent.  Ten  years  hence, 
whispered  the  subtle  Julien  at  a  feast  commemorating 
Marshall's  success,  a  feast  for  which  Moore  himself  paid, 
Lewis  will  be  painting  pictures  at  thirty  thousand  francs 
apiece ;  but  man,  adds  our  author,  is  such  a  selfish  animal 
that  it  began  to  seem  that  he  would  prefer  a  great  failure 
for  Lewis  to  a  great  success.  Yet  if  Marshall  failed  he 
would  never  get  rid  of  him;  and  so  he  was  as  unhappy 
in  the  Galerie  Feydeau  as  he  had  been  at  Oscott  College. 
For  relief  he  sought  another  circle,  and  was  introduced 
to  John  O'Leary  and  others  who  interested  him  on  his 
father's  account.  But  the  problem  remained,  and  indeed 
grew  acuter  when  Lewis  broke  into  that  other  circle.  No 
longer  able  to  endure  the  frightful  neighbourhood,  he 
told  Lewis  that  he  was  going  to  Boulogne,  mentioning  a 
Madame  Ratazzi  with  whom  he  had  acted  in  La  Dame 
aux  Camelias.  Of  his  adventures  as  an  actor  I  know 
nothing. . . .  The  story  of  the  rupture  is  given  in  Confessions, 
but  the  author  of  Fale,  admitting  that  his  own  was  at  once 
a  shameful  and  a  natural  act,  wonders  if  he  has  told 
sufficiently  of  his  surprise  at  Marshall's  indecency  in 
staying  at  the  appartement  when  he  himself  had  gone.  In 
fact,  his  return  from  Boulogne  three  months  later  found 
the  old  difficulty  as  embarrassing  as  ever,  for  Marshall 


43 

ignored  him  and  refused  to  leave,  playing  on  his  friend's 
weakness  and  almost  forcing  him  to  plead  for  forgiveness. 

A  new  start  was  needed  and  the  two  went  to  live  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Tour  des  Dames,  Marshall  to  paint  and 
Moore  to  read  and  write  poetry.  Marshall  furnished  the 
rooms  with  the  imagination  of  a  high-bought  courtesan 
and  a  fifth-rate  artist,  the  valuables  including  incense,  a 
Persian  cat,  a  python  and  a  crush  of  gardenias.  For  as 
yet,  it  seems,  impressionism  was  an  ineffectual  influence, 
and  France  as  vulgar  as  England ;  and  Moore  had  not 
discovered  the  satisfaction  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
commonplace,  he  says,  in  speaking  of  de  Musset,  is  consti- 
tutionally abhorrent  to  him  ;  but  clearly  it  was  not  always 
so,  and  he  suffered  the  perfection  of  the  commonplace 
— the  common  itself — to  flush  his  sky. 

But  Lewis  Ponsonby  Marshall  seemed  to  be  sinking, 
and  had  given  up  hope  of  painting  anything  that  would 
sell,  resorting  instead  to  writing  ridiculous  sonnets.  Un- 
guardedly Moore  introduced  him  to  the  Nouvelle  Ath^nes, 
and  almost  died  of  shame  when  a  foolish  question  to  Degas 
showed  Lewis  as  guilty  of  the  unpardonable  sin — lack  of 
comprehension.  It  was  this  and  this  only,  if  the  memory 
of  the  author  of  Vale  may  be  trusted  (and  he  would 
prefer  an  aesthetic  reason  to  any  other),  that  compelled 
Moore  to  beg  him  to  go  at  once.  In  a  few  days  he  went. 
Months,  perhaps  years  after,  he  met  Marshall  at  Barbizon, 
engaged  in  painting  a  picture  of  an  old  graveyard. 
Friends  gave  him  kindly  or  unkindly  hints,  and  nothing 
remained  for  I^ewis  but  to  paint  the  picture.  But  since 
a  picture  exists  not  in  the  composition  or  the  drawing  but 
in  the  touch,  it  would  have  remained  '  tinny '  had  it  not 
been  for  the  advice  of  that  true  painter,  Stott  of  Oldham, 
who  showed  Lewis  how  to  draw  the  brush  from  right  to 
left  until  the  paint  began  to  look  less  like  linoleum ;  and 
Lewis  thought  he  understood.  The  result  was  a  successful 
picture  which  was  sold  for  ten  thousand  francs.     Lewis's 


44 

conduct,  says  his  friend,  looking  back  on  the  success,  was 
not  very  dignified;  he  could  not  restrain  himself— the 
talent  of  un  detraque  ;  with  which  remark  we  may  dismiss 
Lewis  Ponsonby  Marshall  from  our  tale.  Vivid  enough 
are  these  memories  to  George  Moore,  after  so  many  years, 
and  it  is  characteristic  that  if  he  speaks  of  them  now  (as, 
for  example,  the  incident  of  Stott  redeeming  the  badness 
of  Marshall's  technique),  it  is  almost  precisely  in  the  same 
words,  without  addition  or  omission,  as  those  used  in 
Confessions  or  in  Vale;  so  deeply  have  past  things  entered 
into  his  mind,  and  so  consistent  has  been  his  view  of 
them. 

For  himself,  Moore  says,  both  drama  and  art  were 
abandoned  for  poetry.  He  talked  of  poems  to  Lopez, 
who  gave  him  the  innocent  advice  that  he  should  choose 
subjects  which  might  astonish  the  British  public  by  their 
originality.  Hence  it  was  to  Lopez  that  the  first  copy  of 
Flowers  of  Passion  was  presented,  and  it  was  with  Lopez 
that  he  so  wonderfully  discussed  the  possibility  of  an 
English  and  a  French  author  collaborating  in  a  play  for 
Henry  Irving  on  the  subject  of  Martin  Luther,  even 
deciding  that  it  should  be  written  in  a  spirit  of  ardent 
Protestantism.  Alas  that  nothing  of  these  surprising, 
delicious  discussions  has  been  reported ! 

Proudly  does  Moore  repeat  Manet's  words,  '  There  is  no 
Frenchman  in  England  who  occupies  the  position  you  do 
in  Paris.'  A  reserved  young  man  would  have  been  back- 
ward, but  Moore  was  eager,  maybe  importunate,  and  he 
proved  irresistible.  It  was  to  Lopez,  again,  that  he  owed 
an  introduction  to  Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam,  wild-eyed  and 
dishevelled,  with  white  feminine  hand  and  long-falling 
hair.  His  reminiscence  plays  fondly  with  the  names  of 
artists  who  flamed  in  the  forehead  of  his  morning  sky. 
Shelley  had  continued  to  be  his  joy,  but  that  joy  was 
swallowed  up  for  a  while  on  reading  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin. 


45 

Gautier's  exaltation  of  the  body  above  the  soul,  the  plain 
scorn  of  a  world  of  lacerated  saints  and  crucified  Redeemer, 
conquered  him.  He  had  always  cherished  mystery  and 
dreams ;  but  now  so  great  was  the  change  that  the  more 
brutally  his  old  ideal  was  outraged,  the  rarer  his  delight. 
Never  will  he  read  Gautier  again,  but  though  he  lived  a 
thousand  years  Gautier's  power  over  his  soul  would  remain 
unbroken.  That  Gautier  has  nevertheless  disappeared 
from  the  subsequent  autobiography  of  George  Moore  need 
not  surprise  us,  nor  will  it  evoke  a  very  profound  regret 
when  we  read  The  Brook  Keiith. 

After  Gautier,  Baudelaire.  Mad  and  morbid,  is  his 
phrase  for  the  literature  created  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
1830.  He  was  never  quite  subjugated  by  Baudelaire,  and 
now  grudges  him  the  honours  of  current  criticism ;  declar- 
ing, for  instance,  that  famous  sonnets  show  plain  faults  in 
every  line,  even  faults  of  syntax  as  well  as  obscurities  of 
meaning,  and  prepared  to  prove  that  every  sonnet  has 
such  faults.  Baudelaire,  however,  he  admits,  is  saved  from 
neglect  by  English  readers  by  their  common  ignorance  of 
the  refinements  of  the  French  tongue  ;  and  Moore  himself 
escaped  that  ignorance  only  at  the  cost  of  ten  years  in 
France. 

Reading  again  his  earlier  and  later  musings  upon  French 
literature,  you  require  but  a  very  faint  eflx>rt  to  remember 
that  Moore's  ten  years  in  France  were  ten  years  of  an 
immature  mind — the  mind  of  twenty  to  thirty,  without 
traditions  or  other  anchorage,  and  with  ardour  alone  for 
guide.  He  acknowledges  the  mere  instinctiveness  of  his 
tastes  and  his  attraction  to  the  sound  and  appearance  of 
names ;  and  it  is  perhaps  remarkable  how  clearly  he  sees 
the  French  writers  with  his  own  eyes — Catulle  Mend^s, 
for  example,  one  of  the  muse's  minions ;  a  perfect  realiza- 
tion of  his  name,  with  pale  hair,  fragile  face  and  depraved 
idealism.  '  His  words  are  caresses,  his  fervour  is  delightful, 
and  to  hear  him  is  as  sweet  as  drinking  a  smooth  perfumed 


46 

yellow  wine.  All  he  says  is  false.'  No  one's  conversation 
was  more  fruitful,  he  admits;  but  a  touch  of  the  later 
sharpness  is  added  in,  'Every  country  has  its  Catulle 
Mendes.  Robert  Buchanan  is  ours,  only  in  the  adaptation 
Scotch  gruel  has  been  substituted  for  perfumed  yellow 
wine.'  We  need  not  ask  whether  Mendes  is  already  so 
easily  forgotten  as  Robert  Buchanan. 

For  contrast,  Mallarme  and  Verlaine.  Symbolism  did 
not  attract  him — how  should  it  attract  one  whose  sole  art 
is  expressed  in  clarification  and  effusion ;  one  for  whom 
the  obscure  only  is  horrible,  and  the  rainy  morning  light 
the  sweetest  in  the  world?  No  writer  is  less  capable  of 
mysticism,  and  fluid  as  his  mind  was,  it  flowed  in  its  own 
bed  and  could  not  be  confined  to  the  ambiguous  depths 
and  iridescent  shallows  of  the  symbolist's  world.  Proof 
against  Mallarme's  influence,  he  nevertheless  admired  and 
has  continued  to  admire  the  poet,  'one  of  the  saints  of 
literature,'  whom  to  know  was  an  honour  and  a  distinction 
such  as  fell  upon  the  Apostles.  The  dedication  of  a  new 
edition  of  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  to  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse 
(exquisite  the  phrase  concerning  the  book  that '  so  amiably 
solicits  the  protection  of  your  name  ! ')  affords  the  oppor- 
tunity of  recording  a  recent  visit  to  the  neighbourhood 
which  knew  Mallarme,  and  a  testimony  to  the  rare  concur- 
rence of  acquaintance  and  admiration  in  the  mind  of  our 
author.  To  Verlaine  the  response  was  more  prompt,  ample 
and  prophetic,  as  readers  of  Impressions  and  Opinio?is  will 
remember.  Verlaine  is  sharply  discriminated  as  a  spiritual 
perversity — hate  as  commonplace  as  love  to  him,  unfaith 
as  vulgar  as  faith  ;  yet  poetry  springing  lily-like  in  white- 
ness and  smell  from  the  obscenity  with  which  his  mind 
was  dunged.  That  is  a  vivid  account  of  Moore's  visit  to 
Verlaine. — The  poet  had  promised  a  sonnet  on  Parsifal  for 
publication  in  a  review,  and  Moore  reluctantly  accompanied 
a  friend  in  search  of  the  sonnet  and  the  poet;  and  an 
amusing  story  of  the  exploration  of  a  dim,  eccentric  region 


47 

of  Paris  introduces  you  to  a  dark  corner,  a  door,  and  the 
bald  prominent  forehead,  cavernous  eyes  and  macabre 
expression  of  burnt-out  lust,  which  were  the  outward 
Verlaine.     The  head  was  covered  by  a  filthy  nightcap : — 

'  A  nightshirt  full  of  the  grease  of  the  bed  covered 
his  shoulders  ;  a  stained  and  discoloured  pair  of  trousers 
were  hitched  up  somehow  about  his  waist.  He  was 
drinking  wine  at  sixteen  sous  the  litre.  He  told  us 
that  he  had  just  come  out  of  the  hospital :  that  his 
leg  was  better,  but  it  still  gave  him  a  great  deal  of 
pain.     He  pointed  to  it.     We  looked  away. 

'  He  said  he  was  writing  the  sonnet,  and  promised 
that  we  should  have  it  on  the  morrow.  Then,  in  the 
grossest  language,  he  told  us  of  the  abominations  he 
had  included  in  the  sonnet ;  and  seeing  that  our  visit 
would  prove  neither  pleasant  nor  profitable,  we  took 
our  leave  as  soon  as  we  could.  But  I  remember  one 
thing  that  seems  characteristic.  Speaking  of  a  career 
for  his  son,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  twenty  years, 
he  said  he  regretted  he  had  not  brought  him  up  as  a 
gargon  de  cafe,  avowing  his  belief  that  he  could 
imagine  no  trade  more  advantageous  than  that  of  a 
gargon  de  cafe.' 

Verlaine,  he  adds,  believes,  but  there  is  no  more  than 
belief,  practice  is  wholly  wanting;  and  he  suggests  that 
the  poet  never  quite  realizes  how  he  lives  or  how  he 
writes,  for  after  giving  an  abominable  description  of  the 
sonnet  he  was  pondering,  he  sent  the  depressed  editor  a 
'most  divinely  beautiful  sonnet.'  Verlaine  and  Villon, 
there  is  something  of  kinship  between  them  beyond  the 
crude  suggestion  of  alliteration.  The  whole  man,  in 
Moore's  view,  is  contained  in  an  all-embracing  sense  of  his 
own  unworthiness.  '  He  spoke  of  his  miserable  condition, 
but  without  adjective  or  emphasis — just  as  the  old  woman 
in  the  ballade  might  have  done ;  he  deplored  the  discom- 
fort that  the  lack  of  the  very  smallest  sums  of  money 
involved,  but  without  even  suggesting  that  after  all  it  was 


48 

a  man  of  genius  who  suffered.*  The  picture  is  supremely 
sad :  he  was  alive  when  Moore  wrote  of  him — the  prey  of 
strange  passions  and  constant  sickness,  dragging  a  pitiful 
body  from  hospital  to  hospital  and  sheltering  among  herds 
of  workmen.  It  is  a  proof  of  Moore's  sympathy  and  swift 
apprehension  of  a  remoter  genius  than  his  own,  that  the 
tribute  from  which  I  have  quoted  was  written  when  Verlaine 
was  almost  unknown ;  and  our  author  himself  is  to  be 
thanked  if  his  tribute  is  no  longer  singular. 

Yet  another  instance  of  the  favourite  echo-augury  is 
asserted  in  Moore's  discovery  of  Zola  and  naturalism. 
Hardly  able  to  believe  his  eyes  as  they  scanned  a  casual 
article  by  Zola,  he  read  that  one  should  write  (surely  no 
hard  task !)  with  as  little  imagination  as  possible,  that  plot 
was  illiterate  and  puerile,  and  so  on;  and  he  rose  up  a 
little  dizzy,  as  though  he  had  had  a  violent  knock  on  the 
head.  For  a  third  time  he  experienced  the  pain  and  joy 
of  sudden  light — the  'new  art '  called  naturalism  ;  and  at 
once  vaguely  understood  that  his  Roses  of  Midnight  were 
dead  flowers,  sterile  eccentricities  and  what  not.  The 
Confessions  abounds  with  the  utterance  of  this  mental 
excitement,  and  with  the  difficulties  that  rained  upon  the 
newest  disciple  when  he  meditated  applying  naturalism  to 
poetry.  It  seemed  that  time  was  waiting  for  the  poet  who 
would  sing  fearlessly  of  the  rude  industry  of  dustmen,  and 
Moore  did  not  foresee  that  time  would  quite  serenely  wait 
until  vers  lihre  should  lyricize  the  dustman's  craft. 

It  was,  he  says,  the  idea  of  the  new  aestheticism  that 
seduced  him — the  new  art  corresponding  to  modern  life 
as  ancient  art  corresponded  to  ancient  life ;  for  as  yet,  I 
surmise,  he  could  not  perceive  the  opportunity  of  art 
unentangled  by  current  and  local  conditions.  He  could 
not  perceive  that  what  caught  him  so  powerfully  was 
transitory  and  not  permanent,  delusive  and  not  solid,  a 
formula  and  not  a  native  mode.     Reading  Zola  he  had 


49 

been  impressed  by  a  pyramidal  size  and  strength,  and  a 
fugal  treatment  of  various  scenes  ;  he  did  not  know  then, 
as  he  came  to  know  later  (how  gradually  his  own  books 
have  shown),  that  it  is  only  the  artist  that  changes,  art 
being  eternal.  No  writer  has  changed  more  slowly,  or 
more  completely,  than  George  Moore ;  no  writer  has  be- 
come more  devotedly  an  artist ;  but  he  had  not  yet  found 
what  he  was,  and  for  a  while  was  subdued  by  Zola's 
immense  energy  and  the  simplicity  of  his  prescription. 
Subtilize  as  he  will,  the  creative  mind  of  an  artist  craves 
simplicity,  and  what  is  more  welcome  than  a  new  and 
energetic  formula  when  the  mind  is  perplexed  and  wearied 
with  twilight  subtleties  ? 

Disguised  as  a  Parisian  workman,  for  the  occasion  was  a 
fancy-dress  ball  in  honour  of  L' Assommoir,  and  accompanied 
by  the  impressive  Manet,  he  thrust  through  a  Montmartre 
crowd  and  found  himself  speaking  to  a  thickly-built, 
massive  person — Zola  himself — who  chilled  him  with  a 
bow  and  passed  on.  Not  until  he  sought  out  naturalism 
in  a  temporary  fastness  did  he  really  talk  and  listen  to 
Zola,  who  was  not  yet  the  kindly  and  gracious  host,  but 
a  bear  cursing  the  universe — no,  a  Buddha  with  fat  legs 
lying  on  a  sofa.  Buddha,  however,  finding  he  had  not  to 
entertain  a  fool,  was  ready  to  talk  on  Protestantism  in  art 
to  the  author  of  Martin  Luther.  '  I  have  made  a  friend,' 
repeated  Moore  again  and  again  as  he  returned  from  his 
first  conversation  with  Buddha  ;  but  the  significance  of  the 
friendship  was  exaggerated.  Years  after,  when  Confessions 
of  a  Young  Man  was  appearing  in  a  magazine  and  Zola 
was  under  a  promise  to  write  a  preface  to  a  French 
translation  of  A  Mummer  s  Wife,  Moore  called  again  and 
found  that  Zola  would  not  write  it.  Why?  Buddha, 
resuming  whatever  humanity  he  may  be  supposed  to  have 
discarded,  pointed  to  offending  passages  in  '  La  Synthese 
de  la  Nouvelle  Athenes.'  For  there  already  Moore  had 
discovered  that  Zola  had  no  style,  but  sought  immortality 

E 


50 

in  an  exact  description  of  a  linen-draper's  shop  ;  and  I 
conceive  Zola  pointing  out  this  enormity  of  recantation, 
and  others  as  huge,  and  disdaining  his  critic's  pleading 
hands.  Vainly,  and  surely  with  no  excess  of  dignity,  did 
the  younger  novelist  urge  that  he  was  not  giving  his  real 
opinions — it  was  a  synthesis  of  others*  opinions — can't  you 
see  ?  Not  so,  replied  the  re-humanized  Buddha ;  you  call 
them  Confessions,  and  when  we  use  that  word  we  mean 
that  at  last  we  are  going  to  tell  the  truth.  Not  that  he 
was  angered :  he  merely  found  it  impossible  to  write  the 
preface.  Children  will  devour  their  fathers,  he  added, 
mantling  himself  in  an  unapproachable  reserve. 

'There  were  tears  in  my  eyes,'  says  our  English 
naturalist,  as  he  recalls  Zola's  words  and  the  simplicity 
with  which  they  were  uttered  ;  but  the  tears  were 
promptly  followed  with  a  more  familiar  sardonic  smile,  and 
he  goes  on  to  say  that  at  this  time  Zola  was  fat,  and  soon 
after  dieted  himself  into  leanness;  that  Zola's  house 
revealed  a  large  coarse  mind,  a  coarse  net  through  which 
living  things  escape ;  that  Zola  once  thought  of  giving  a 
ball,  and  so  on.  And  equally  characteristic  is  his  return 
to  appreciation  as  he  forgets  the  external  man  and  con- 
siders the  inward  genius,  until  he  cries — a  most  extra- 
ordinary imagination  I  Yet,  alas,  Zola  was  not  naturally  an 
artist,  and  the  quality  of  his  writing  does  not  seem  to  con- 
cern him  any  more  than  the  quality  of  the  things  he  buys  ; 
and  again,  alas,  Zola  is  a  striking  instance  of  the  insanity  ot 
common  sense.  All  that  Moore  says  of  Zola  is  witness  of 
his  own  movement ;  revelation,  recognition,  discipleship  for 
the  first  steps,  and  again  recognition,  mocking  and  neglect 
for  the  last.  Paris  showed  him  Zola,  and  the  steady, 
stealthy  discarding  of  Parisian  influences  showed  him  Zola 
anew — a  gross  imagination,  the  very  enormity  of  common 
sense.     The  illusion  was  violent,  the  disillusion  complete. 

There  is  scarcely  a  word  of  Zola  in  Moore's  later 
writings,  and  equally  striking  is  the  silence  of  our  author 


51 

upon  that  other  French  master  whose  association  with 
Zola  was  so  honourably  public.  I  refer  to  Anatole  France. 
Moore's  silence  might  be  variously  interpreted,  but  no 
interpretation  is  so  sure  as  that  the  French  ironist  and  the 
English  imaginative  artist  are  diversely  endowed  and  that 
their  superficial  likeness — clear  enough  to  one  who  regards 
but  their  humours — is  delusive.  1  do  not  know  how 
fondly  Anatole  France  views  the  later  writings  of  George 
Moore,  and  I  can  but  hope  that  he  does  not  look  upon 
them  with  such  a  mortal  indifference  as  George  Moore 
opposes  to  the  brilliance  of  his  contemporary ;  for  in  his 
eyes  Anatole  France  is  but  a  small  figure.  He  has  praise 
neither  for  La  Vie  LitUraire  nor  for  Monsieur  Bergeret. 
True  that  the  inherent  cynicism  does  not  repel  him, 
but  neither  does  the  wit  charm  him.  Moore  and  Anatole 
France  were  in  Paris  together,  and  met ;  but  they  were 
young,  inconspicuous  men,  and  I  suppose  previsionary 
glances  prevented  both  intimacy  and  enmity. 

A  round-shouldered  man  in  a  suit  of  pepper  and  salt,  with 
small  eyes  and  sharp  tongue — Degas — is  a  figure  to  be 
remembered  by  the  side  of  his  friend  and  rival,  Manet,  as 
you  see  him  in  Confessions.  It  was  about  1876  that  Moore 
became  acquainted  with  Degas,  wondering  why  he  had 
been  called  harsh  and  intractable,  an  old  curmudgeon. 
It  was  a  mere  legend,  put  protectingly  forward  by  a  very 
courteous  and  kind  man  whose  sole  objection  was  urged 
against  journalists.  Degas  held  that  the  artist  must  live 
apart,  and  his  private  life  remain  unknown  ;  and  you  may 
judge  of  the  strength  of  his  hold  upon  our  author's 
admiration  when  you  read  of  his  own  breach  in  the 
privacy  with  which  Degas  surrounded  himself.  His 
doctrine  was  far  other  than  the  doctrine  of  George  Moore, 
who  called  one  morning  at  his  studio,  pulled  the  string  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  ran  up  to  question  the  painter 
about  the  very  book  which  had  so  mortally  chilled  Zola. 


52 

Degas  was  reading  the  book  and  was  pleased  with  it — so 
pleased,  that  the  gratified  author  began  to  meditate  an 
article  upon  his  host,  saying  to  himself  that  Degas'  dislike 
of  notoriety  was  purely  imaginary.  The  article  was 
written — you  may  read  it  in  hnpressions  and  Opinions 
— and  attracted  attention  in  France.  Hence  arose  a 
dilemma ;  how  could  Degas  consent  to  see  Moore  again, 
when  it  had  been  given  out  to  the  world  that  he  would 
never  speak  to  anyone  who  related  his  private  life  in  an 
article  }  How  could  he  speak  to  a  friend — a  dear  friend 
even — who  had  flagrantly  violated  the  rule }  Degas 
preferred  consistency,  until  he  fell  under  the  power  of 
remembrance  and  sent  word  that  he  would  see  his  old 
friend  when  he  revisited  Paris.  But  to  renew  an  old 
friendship  would  be  difficult,  and  they  never  met  again. 
A  breath  of  extreme  sorrow  is  heard  in  the  postscript  to 
this  story,  when  you  read  in  a  letter  from  a  friend  of  the 
painter,  '  Degas  lives  alone  and  almost  blind,  seeing 
nobody,  without  any  kind  of  occupation,'  and  picture  him 
hearing  of  the  tardy  homage  paid  to  the  achievements 
which  his  own  eyes  might  never  again  behold. 

Degas  remains  in  his  mind,  no  more  alienated,  type  (if 
type  he  can  be  called)  of  the  artists  to  whom  George 
Moore's  early  devotion  was  freely  given.  Among  those 
earlier  contemporaries  the  painters  alone  remain  undis- 
turbed in  eminence,  for  the  writers  have  become  rivals 
and  his  emulous  ardency  has  not  permitted  them  to 
prolong  a  casual  brightness.  Manet,  Degas,  Renoir  and 
Monet — who  began,  Moore  considers,  by  imitating  Manet, 
while  Manet  ended  by  imitating  Monet — these  endure ; 
for  when  our  author  discarded  painting,  he  found  his 
desires  no  longer  rebuked  by  their  accomplishment.  We 
shall  see  later  on  that  comparison  has  been  a  constant 
stimulus  to  his  own  work,  as  well  as  an  amusement  to  his 
readers ;  and  it  is  only  in  a  kindred  but  remote  art  that 
disparagement  has  not  followed  quickly  on  the  heels  of 


h3 

familiarity.     This  at  any  rate  Paris  had  achieved  for  him 
at  the  end  of  his  ten-years  effort  to  become  a  Frenchman. 

But  as  a  writer  what  did  Paris  do  for  him?  He  had 
failed  to  become  a  painter,  and  he  lost  a  great  deal  of  the 
fragmentary  knowledge  of  the  English  language  which  he 
took  to  France.  But  he  wavers  when  he  asks  himself 
what  Paris  did  for  him.  At  one  time  he  wonders  whether 
Edward  Martyn  was  not  right  in  saying  that  Moore  had 
lost  his  soul  in  Paris  and  London ;  and  when  he  reflects 
upon  that  expression  of  the  soul  which  is  called  'style,'  or 
merely  '  prose/  he  counts  himself  lucky  to  have  fled  from 
France.  Yet  he  hankered  and  has  always  hankered  after 
French,  and  in  his  latest  meditation  upon  himself  he  finds 
that  those  ten  years  were  not  wasted  ;  Nature  drove  him 
forth  from  England,  for  in  her  strange  wisdom  she 
lamented  the  deeply-rutted  road  into  which  English 
fiction  had  fallen,  and  raised  up  a  new  Parsifal.  To 
redeem  mankind  from  too  great  admiration  of  certain 
writers — you  are  to  presume  contemporary  English 
novelists — she  sought  out  one  who  had  resisted  school 
education,  one  who  had  been  a  perplexity  to  his  father 
and  indulged  himself  in  the  pleasures  of  opera  bouffe  until 
he  was  twenty-one,  and  sent  him  to  Paris  to  forget  English, 
and  at  the  same  time  fail  to  become  a  French  writer.  A 
virgin  mind,  he  notes,  in  this  half-dazzled,  swift,  reverting 
glance.  Shall  we  not  echo  his  added  tribute,  that  Nature's 
foresight  and  versatility  are  indeed  remarkable  ?  She  put 
pebbles  into  his  mouth,  and  they  dropped  out  but  slowly, 
one  by  one,  with  each  of  his  laborious  efl^orts  to  write 
English.  We  shall  see  them  fall,  we  shall  note  the 
gradual  clearing,  the  articulation  becoming  less  laboured ; 
modulations  will  be  distinguished,  civilities  and  humours 
will  be  heard,  and  when  the  last  stone — a  round  French 
stone — has  been  ejected,  we  shall  hear  a  voice  speaking 
with  unaccustomed  ease  and  a  fluency  which  is  sometimes 


54 

near  to  monotony,  yet  never  wanting  the  variableness  of 
the  seasons  of  the  year. 

He  wavers,  I  said,  when  he  asks  what  Paris  did  for  him, 
at  one  time  murmuring,  'So  much,'  and  at  another, 
'  Perhaps  so  little  !'  Even  in  1921,  in  the  prelude  to  the 
new  edition  of  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life,  he  has  asserted, 
*  So  much  ! '  yet  in  the  same  year,  answering  the  question. 
How  much  ?  he  murmurs,  '  I  don't  know ;  perhaps,  as 
you  say,  the  writer  was  in  me  all  the  time  and  Paris  may 
not  have  helped  me  much,  even  though  you  may  be  wrong 
in  thinking  it  hindered  me.  Who  can  say  ?  * — And  when 
he  is  pressed  with.  After  all,  doesn't  a  writer,  like  any 
other  human  being,  simply  become  more  and  more  in- 
tensely himself?  And  isn't  his  exercise  partly  a  stripping 
of  the  foolish  accretions  of  his  youth,  and  sloughing 
numberless  skins  until  his  native  brightness  appears,  his 
Paris  being  but  a  thicker  and  tougher  skin  than  all  the 
rest .'' — when  he  is  pressed  thus  his  eyes  sink  musingly 
back  into  his  head  and  he  answers,  *  Perhaps — who 
knows  ? '  and  fails  to  remark,  what  I  have  only  just 
remembered,  that  in  the  preface  to  The  Coming  of  Gahrielle 
he  himself  has  significantly  pointed  out  the  truth  that  we 
grow  into  ourselves,  if  we  grow  at  all. 

It  would  be  ill-manners  to  make  George  Moore  a  mere 
warning  to  other  writers,  yet  the  significance  of  his  mental 
subjection  to  the  French  is  not  limited  to  himself.  One 
whose  chief  interest  has  for  many  years  been  animated  by 
English  verse  may  be  pardoned  for  thinking  that  a  sub- 
ordination to  foreign  influence  is  an  evil  thing  to  befall  an 
English  writer.  Imaginative  literature  is  a  fleet  sailing 
its  eternal  course  over  the  seas  of  the  world,  and  if  the 
newest  commander  of  the  frailest  barque  puts  in  at  an 
alien  port  and  lingers  on  until  hulk  and  shrouds  alike  are 
decayed,  he  will  find  it  a  huge  discouraging  task  to  put  to 
sea  again.  Moore  seems  to  have  thought  he  could  become 
French  merely  by  living  ten  years  in  France  ;  but  kindly 


55 

as  his  glance  was,  he  perceived  at  last  that  he  was  not 
French  and  had  but  made  his  task  as  an  English  writer 
stiff  with  every  possible  difficulty.  That  certain  English 
writers  have  been  touched  to  fine  issues  by  the  study  of 
another  than  their  native  language,  proves  nothing  for  the 
argument  so  far  as  our  author  is  concerned ;  for  he  is 
an  experimental  writer,  and  how  can  you  write  from  ex- 
perience except  in  that  language  which  is  the  chief  gift 
of  experience  and  of  the  deeper,  unconscious  experience 
called  tradition  ?  Ten  years  in  France  are  not  wasted  if 
they  yield  an  acquaintance  with  many  and  a  familiarity 
with  a  few  of  the  leaders  of  the  impressionists,  and  at 
least — or  at  most — they  may  suffice  to  make  an  agreeably 
versatile  writer  upon  English  art;  but  in  that  other 
practice,  the  practice  of  prose,  ten  alien  years  may  con- 
ceivably work  an  effect  only  less  ignoble  in  prose  than  in 
verse.  Denaturalization  is  an  end  beyond  the  reach  of 
any  truly  imaginative  writer,  and  usually  beyond  his  aim 
also  ;  and  the  attempt  is  deplorable  as  well  as  vain,  for  the 
deflection  of  young  vigours  during  a  whole  decade  in  a 
man's  life — ^and  in  art  how  brief  the  longest  life ! — is  a 
weakness  which  cannot  pass  unobserved,  and  which  will 
persist  long  after  the  surrender  has  been  annulled.  I 
need  not  labour  the  argument,  for  has  not  Moore  bewailed 
that  surrender  with  eloquent  and  exact  admissions  ?  But 
even  Moore  himself  has  not  apprehended  all  the  con- 
sequences, and  has  often  been  complacent  enough  in  his 
review  of  the  past. 

Yet  a  reservation  must  be  made,  for  to  generalize  on 
such  personal  matters  is  neither  interesting  nor  useful. 
The  influence  of  France  upon  the  creative  mind  may  have 
been  deadly  enough  in  Moore's  case,  but  upon  the  critical 
mind  the  same  morbid  influence  cannot  be  asserted. 
Definitions  of  '  creative  '  and  '  criticism  '  need  not  seduce 
our  attention  just  now,  for  refinements  of  distinction  are 
wasted  where  the  facts  are  generous  in  their  witness.     As 


56 

a  creative  writer  George  Moore  had  much  to  unlearn, 
much  to  forget  when  he  left  France  for  England,  and  even 
his  excellences  are  marred  by  foreign  airs  and  patches  ; 
his  clearest  impressions  being  delayed  until  slow  time  and 
wandering  change  had  released  and  renewed  him.  But  as 
a  critical  writer  it  seems  that  in  the  years  first  following 
his  return  to  England  he  owed  much  to  France.  It  was 
his  luck,  as  we  have  remarked,  to  be  associated  in  varying 
degrees  with  many  painters  whose  work  has  already 
become  part  of  the  nineteenth  century's  bequest  to  the 
twentieth.  Of  one  of  them,  whose  painting  has  the 
quality  which  George  Moore's  purest  art  itself  manifests, 
I  mean  Corot,  he  speaks  too  little,  but  still  with  the 
admiration  of  an  unavowed  disciple.  He  approaches  what 
he  calls  the  mystery  of  Corot  when  he  suggests  that  Corot's 
art  has  nothing  in  common  with  impressionist  art;  for 
although  Corot  aimed  at  rendering  his  impression  of  a 
subject,  his  method  of  rendering  it  was  contrary  to  the 
method  of  Monet  and  his  school,  Monet  never  having 
known  how  to  organize  and  control  his  values.  Usually, 
however,  Moore's  criticism  is  most  acute  when  he  has 
something  to  tell  you  of  the  painter  himself  or  when  he  is 
challenging  current  tastes.  He  can  strike  sparks  from 
the  solid  rocks  of  popular  stupidity,  as  he  sees  it  in  the 
Royal  Academy,  but  he  contributes  little  to  the  foundation 
of  principles  which  might  purge  the  Royal  Academy  of 
stupidity  in  the  future. 

More  frequently  does  he  speak  of  Manet,  Degas  and  the 
rest,  and  always  with  the  admiration  of  a  declared  disciple. 
They  could  not  teach  him  their  art,  but  he  could  learn  to 
look  with  their  eyes  and  to  weigh  with  their  measure. 
Had  he  lived  in  the  great  period  of  English  water-colour, 
his  instinct  would  have  led  him  into  contact  with  English 
painters,  and  he  would  have  shown  the  same  discriminating 
zeal  in  proclaiming  their  virtues  as  he  has  shown  in 
asserting  the  virtues  of  the  impressionists ;  it  being  plain 


57 

enough  that  George  Moore  in  his  earlier  writings  is  not  an 
original  critic  but  a  very  perfect  and  subtle  echo.  In 
those  essays  (as  indeed  in  all  his  later  work)  he  betrays  no 
hint  of  speculation  in  his  mind  ;  his  criticism  is  based 
not  upon  principles  of  aesthetics,  but  upon  remembered 
sensations  and  personal  influences.  You  will  not  look  to 
Modern  Painting  or  Impressions  and  Opinions  for  theories  ot 
criticism  or  theories  of  creation  ;  and  even  now,  although 
Croce  may  sweep  all  England  with  his  new  flame,  Moore  is 
shy  of  abstractions  and  remains  unlit  and  unwarmed  by 
any  aesthetic  speculation.  Ivy-like  he  clings  round  his 
subject,  his  leaves  gleaming  brightly  and  precisely  against 
the  hard  rind  of  created  beauty  and  revealed  truth  ; 
detached  he  falls.  There  is  an  exquisite  responsiveness  in 
his  essays  on  art ;  the  more  closely  he  follows  the  intention 
of  the  subject  the  more  happily  you  listen ;  and  he  is  able 
to  illustrate  and  support  his  opinions  by  a  reminiscent 
familiarity  which  leads  you  to  forget  to  ask  for  something 
fresh  and  independent  in  view.  Thus  in  writing  of  Degas 
he  says  that  Degas,  with  marvellous  perception,  follows 
every  curve  and  characteristic  irregularity,  writing  the 
very  soul  of  his  model  upon  the  canvas ;  but  you  hardly 
stay  to  remark  the  vagueness  of  such  phrasing  because  it 
is  followed  with  : — 

'  He  will  paint  portraits  only  of  those  whom  he 
knows  intimately,  for  it  is  part  of  his  method  only 
to  paint  his  sitter  in  that  environment  which  is 
habitual  to  her  or  him.  With  stagey  curtains,  balus- 
trades, and  conventional  poses,  he  will  have  nothing 
to  do.  He  will  watch  the  sitter  until  he  learns  all 
her  or  his  tricks  of  expression  and  movement,  and 
then  will  reproduce  all  of  them,  and  with  such  exacti- 
tude and  sympathetic  insight  that  the  very  inner 
life  of  the  man  is  laid  bare.  .  .  .  And  that  Degas  may 
render  more  fervidly  all  the  characteristics  that  race, 
heredity,  and  mode  of  life  have  endowed  his  sitter 
with,  he  makes  numerous  drawings  and  paints  from 


58 

them  ;  but  he  never  paints  direct  from  life.  And  as 
he  sought  new  subject-matter,  he  sought  for  new 
means  by  which  he  might  reproduce  his  subject  in 
an  original  and  novel  manner.  At  one  time  he 
renounced  oil-painting  entirely,  and  would  only  work 
in  pastel  or  distemper.  Then,  again,  it  was  water- 
colour  painting,  and  sometimes  in  the  same  picture 
he  would  abandon  one  medium  for  another.  There 
are  examples  extant  of  pictures  begun  in  water-colour, 
continued  in  gouache,  and  afterwards  completed  in 
oils  ;  and  if  the  picture  be  examined  carefully,  it  will 
be  found  that  the  finishing  hand  has  been  given  with 
pen  and  ink.  Degas  has  worked  upon  his  lithographs, 
introducing  a  number  of  new  figures  into  the  picture 
by  means  of  pastel.  He  has  done  beautiful  sculpture, 
but,  not  content  with  taking  a  ballet-girl  for  subject, 
has  declined  to  model  the  skirt,  and  had  one  made  by 
the  nearest  milliner.' 

The  lengthy  citation  may  be  paralleled  by  many  others 
upon  other  painters.  It  is  not  an  illegitimate  method,  it 
is  a  method  that  may  teach  much,  but  it  is  scarcely  a 
critical  method.  Rather  is  it  an  instance  of  Moore's 
failure  in  detachment  as  a  critic,  and  since  painting  is  not 
his  own  art,  his  criticism  is  useful  not  for  understanding, 
but  for  accepting  a  picture.  The  method  would  possess  an 
equal  validity  if  applied  to  the  praise  of  bad  pictures,  and 
in  fact  when  Moore  writes  of  bad  pictures  he  scarcely 
shows  you  why  they  are  bad,  but  simply  how  he  hates 
them.  He  does  not  rationalize  his  dislike,  and  is  yet 
farther  from  giving  you  the  means  of  rationalizing  your 
own.  To  few  men  is  it  permitted  to  announce  principles 
of  criticism,  though  many  men  evince  an  excellent,  intuitive 
judgment ;  but  criticism  is  something  beyond  the  avowal 
of  intuitive  likings  and  revulsions.  Moore's  conception  of 
pictures,  attractive  and  stimulating  as  you  find  it,  is  one 
to  which  the  conscious  mind  has  brought  much  less  than 
the  unconscious ;  while  the  great  critic  is  he   in   whom 


59 

emotional  is  fused  with  intellectual  apprehension.  But 
the  great  critic  is  rare,  and  is  seldom  developed  in  the 
creative  writer. 

Nevertheless,  I  do  not  urge  that  George  Moore's 
criticism  is  parasitic.  The  mendicant  critic  resorts  to 
easy  paraphrase,  and  with  the  facility  of  a  fool  will  tell 
you  what  a  picture  is  about — a  trick  perfectly  legitimate 
in  respect  of  inferior  art,  in  which  subject  can  be  regarded 
aj)art  from  treatment,  but  sterile  and  impertinent  in  respect 
of  original  art.  Moore  has  never  yielded  himself  to  such 
a  folly.  Instead  of  sinking  to  the  description  of  a  picture, 
he  tells  you  of  its  effect  upon  him — a  story  of  far  more 
interest — or  merely  the  effect  of  the  painter's  personality 
in  sharp  contact  with  his  own.  It  is  this,  indeed,  that 
lends  half  the  interest  that  you  find  in  his  essay  on 
Whistler.  You  will  not  fail  to  remember  his  personal 
dislike  of  Whistler  on  first  seeing  him,  nor  question 
whether  that  primary  dislike  was  ever  overcome.  There 
is,  for  instance,  a  subtle  disparagement  in  the  phrase. 
Nature  has  dowered  Whistler  with  only  genius  ;  if  there 
is,  also,  a  clumsiness  which  must  have  amused  that  acute 
stylist  to  tears.  Whistler,  Moore  says,  lacked  physical 
power,  but  a  painter  needs  the  nerves  of  a  bull ;  and  then, 
oddly  and  innocently  enough,  he  urges  that  if  Whistler 
had  been  six  inches  taller,  and  '  his  bulk  proportionately 
increased ' — I  hope  that  the  author  of  such  a  phrase  will 
never  chance  on  it  now — his  art  would  have  been 
different.  Innocent  and  odd  are  such  sentences,  but  as 
you  read  on  you  find  that  they  are  introduced  merely  to 
give  a  living  hue  to  Moore's  dislike  and  a  physical  origin 
to  the  hysteria,  febrility,  anaemia  and  weakness  which  the 
critic  affects  to  find  in  Whistler's  work.  Tributes  to 
certain  of  the  Nocturnes  do  not  lessen  the  offence  of  a 
critical  attitude  which  hazards  such  a  twilight  practice  : 
and  Moore  even  applies  this  practice  to  the  details  of 
painting,  saying.  Look  at  that   ear  !    in  proof  that  the 


60 

painter's  nerves  had  given  way  once  or  twice.  Unfortunate 
is  it  that  these  petulances  of  criticism  should  persist  in 
the  reader's  mind  even  when  the  author  proceeds  to 
unrestrained  praise. 

It  is  pleasanter  to  observe  that  this  critical  mode  does 
not  touch  Moore's  affection  for  the  French  artists,  to 
whom  his  submissiveness  was  almost  as  complete  as 
prompt ;  though  with  these  also  the  interest  of  what  he 
says  is  mainly  personal  and  reminiscent.  .  .  .  '  That 
marvellous  hand,  those  thick  fingers  holding  the  brush  so 
firmly,  so  heavily  :  he  did  with  it  what  he  liked,  and  my 
palette  was  the  same  to  him  as  his  own  ; ' — it  is  of  Manet 
that  he  speaks.  '  A  wise  and  appreciative  Jew,  looking 
like  Abraham,  with  white  beard  and  bald  head,  always 
following  in  another's  footsteps,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  ot 
painting  ; ' — it  is  of  Pisarro  that  he  speaks.  And  ot 
Cezanne — '  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  Cez- 
anne at  the  Nouvelle  Athenes ;  he  was  too  rough,  too 
savage  a  creature,  who  used  to  be  met  on  the  outskirts  of 
Paris  wandering  about  the  hill-sides  in  jack-boots.  As  no 
one  took  the  least  interest  in  his  pictures  he  left  them  in 
the  fields ;  when  his  pictures  began  to  be  asked  for,  his 
son  and  daughter  used  to  inquire  them  out  in  the  cottages, 
and  keep  watch  in  the  hedges  and  collect  the  sketches  he 
had  left  behind.'  .  .  .  Anarchical  work  was  Cezanne's,  but 
there  is  life  in  his  pictures. 

Moore  is  as  French  in  what  he  says  of  pictures  in  Vale 
as  in  his  writings  of  twenty  years  earlier.  He  assimilated 
the  best  that  was  around  him,  surrendering  himself  so 
easily  that  the  worst  had  no  chance.  Thus  his  Frenchifi- 
cation  was  a  positive  gain  when  he  approached  English  art, 
and  if  an  English  painter  may  have  ignored  or  contemned 
his  criticism,  that  criticism  was  too  intelligent,  too  clear 
a  mirror,  to  fail  in  affecting  those  who  buy  pictures. 
Happily  it  is  not  an  unavoidable  part  of  my  task  to  trace 
the  influence  of  Moore's  writing  upon  current  standards  of 


61 

art  and  criticism ;  I  need  only  remind  the  reader  that  our 
author  claims  an  honourable  position,  for  instance,  as  an 
apostle  of  Verlaine,  and  that  his  unfaltering  assertion 
thirty  years  ago  of  the  excellence  of  certain  French  artists 
has  been  confirmed  by  the  recognition  of  a  discriminating 
public  in  England.  Not  without  reason  he  plumes  himself 
now  on  reflecting  that  those  who  took  his  early  advice  and 
bought  impressionist  pictures  have  made  money  out  of 
them ;  and  if  this  book  were  written  for  dealers  it  might 
be  amusing  to  pursue  the  subject. 

The  volume  in  which  the  story  of  his  Parisian  years  is 
told  was  not  written  until  some  time  after  his  return  to 
England.  He  has  twice  annotated  the  book  since  then, 
once  in  1904  and  once  in  1916,  without  attempting  the 
impossible  softening  of  crudities,  without,  in  fact,  trying 
to  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.  He  does  not 
despise  it,  and  indeed  regards  it  as  a  sort  of  genesis, 
containing  the  seed  of  everything  he  has  written.  He  is 
gratified  when  he  looks  back  and  finds  that  his  tastes  in  the 
early  eighties  are  his  tastes  in  1916 — an  unusual  admission 
and  an  unusual  source  of  pride.  The  interest  of  the  book 
is  not  the  interest  of  literature,  but  for  our  present  purpose 
it  has  a  value  almost  beyond  that  of  any  other  of  George 
Moore's  writings. 


CHAPTER  111 

NATURALIST  OR  REAUST 


In  truth  good  Authours  deject  me  too-too  much, 
and  quaile  my  courage.  I  willingly  imitate  that 
Painter  who,  having  bungler-like  drawn  and  fondly 
represented  some  Cockes,  forbad  his  boies  to  suffer 
any  live  Cocke  to  come  into  his  shop.  And  to  give 
my  selfe  some  luster  or  grace  have  rather  neede 
of  some  of  Antinonydes  the  Musicians  invention ; 
who,  when  he  was  to  play  any  musick,  gave  order 
that  before  or  after  him,  some  other  bad  musicians 
should  cloy  and  surfet  his  auditory, — Montaigne. 


HE  had  gone  to  Paris  about  the  end  of  1872^  and  left  it 
ten  years  later.  '  As  was  characteristic  of  me,  I  broke 
with  Paris  suddenly,  without  warning  anyone.  I  knew  in 
my  heart  of  hearts  that  T  should  never  return,  but  no  word 
was  spoken,  and  I  continued  a  pleasant  delusion  with 
myself ;  I  told  my  concierge  that  I  would  return  in  a  month, 
and  I  left  all  to  be  sold,  brutally  sold  by  auction.  .  .  . 
Not  even  to  Marshall  did  I  confide  my  foreboding  that 
Paris  would  pass  out  of  my  life,  that  it  would  henceforth 
be  with  me  a  beautiful  memory,  but  never  more  a  practical 
delight.*  Yes,  it  is  characteristic,  and  characteristic  too 
that  his  return  from  France  should  be  made  to  appear — 
for  his  readers — not  only  sudden  but  unaccountable.  How 
completely  narrowed  his  personal  horizon  had  become, 
may  be  guessed  from  the  fact  that  not  only  his  first  resting- 
place,  but  his  centre  of  interest  after  leaving  France  was 
London.  His  father  had  travelled,  swept  off  his  feet,  in 
his  son's  story,  by  a  great  passion ;  strange  lands  too  had 
called  him,  but  George  Moore  did  not  hear  the  voices  which 
called  his  father  forth.  Neither  the  strong  passion  nor 
the  beckoning  of  strange  lands  touched  him  when  he  left 
France ;  his  preoccupation  was  already  sedentary,  and 
camels  and  ships  and  peasants'  huts  and  snowy  heights 
remained  beyond  his  care.  Whether  a  certain  poverty  of 
interest  does  not  result  from  narrowness  of  contact,  and 
whether  indeed  an  urban  life  is  a  wise  choice  for  a  sensitive 
artist,  are  questions  which  it  is  a  little  ungraceful  to  ask 
and  unnecessary  to  answer  ;  and  yet  the  infinite,  rosy-hued 
cloud  of  might-have-been  holds  certain  hints  of  other 
developments  of  the  powers  that  were  hidden  in  George 
Moore  when  he  stepped  into  the  inobsequious  Strand, 
dressed  in  exuberant  necktie,  tiny  hat,  large  trousers  and 
V  65 


66 

a  beard.  A  like  extravagance  of  garb  is  admitted  in 
Pamell  and  His  Island,  where  he  describes  his  own  appari- 
tion in  the  person  of  another  suddenly  breaking  in  upon 
the  familiar  house,  with  long  hair,  Capoul-like  beard, 
Parisian  clothes — un  etre  de  feerie.  .  .  .  And  not  less  an 
alien  in  mind  than  in  dress,  his  first  business  was,  he 
recollects,  with  an  agent  who  explained  that  Moore  owed 
him  a  few  thousand  pounds;  that  being  the  first  and 
perhaps  most  violent  impact  of  external  upon  mental 
things.  You  are,  in  fact,  to  understand  that  it  was  this 
business  that  called  him  from  France,  since  the  Moore 
Hall  estate,  under  the  influence  of  Parnell  and  the  boycott, 
was  producing  debts  and  not  revenue,  and  even  the  modest 
remittances  upon  which  his  Paris  life  depended  were  to  be 
discontinued.  But  this  of  itself  meant  but  a  brief  inter- 
ruption ;  a  few  days  might  have  seen  him  back  in  Paris ; 
yet  he  stayed,  obedient  to  some  gesture,  voice  or  air 
sweeping  the  barrenness  of  his  heart.  He  knew  that  it 
was  determined  for  him  that  he  should  stay,  just  as  it  was 
determined  later  that  he  should  go  to  Ireland  and  then 
again  leave  it.  .  .  .  The  difficulty  of  money  could  be  put 
by,  but  how  evade  the  difficulty  of  a  reinstated  intelligence 
at  odds  with  its  home?  Every  outward  aspect  was  new 
and  strange,  every  face  now  Brobdingnagian  and  now 
Lilliputian,  but  all  alike  foreign.  Preoccupied  as  he  was 
with  this  separation,  he  was  yet  able  to  conclude  em- 
phatically that  the  difference  between  English  and  French 
is  found  in  the  men,  not  in  the  women.  Englishwomen 
and  Frenchwomen  being  psychologically  very  similar. 
But  the  opposition  between  the  men  of  the  two  nations 
seemed  temperamental  and  absolute.  Generalizations  of 
this  easy  kind  are  not,  however,  common  in  our  author.  .  .  . 
Picture  him  debouching  from  Morley's  Hotel,  meditating 
upon  the  departure  of  his  agent  and  then,  wherever  he 
turns  and  whomsoever  he  accosts,  dismayed  by  a  ridiculous 
awkwardness    of    speech ;    an    intensely   French-looking 


67 

Irishman,  anxious  to  become  English  and  an  English  writer, 
yet  no  longer  at  home  in  his  native  language  nor  secure  in 
his  foreign  tongue.  Gulliver's  isolation  was  never  com- 
pleter. Moore  had  heard  of  writing  and  speaking  two 
languages  equally  well,  but  he  found  it  impossible;  so 
impossible,  that  had  he  stayed  but  two  years  longer  in 
France  he  would  never  have  been  able  to  identify  his 
thoughts  with  the  English  language.  He  is  able  to 
determine,  with  melancholy  exactitude,  that  the  real 
damage  was  done  during  his  last  two  years  in  France, 
when  he  had  begun  to  write  verse  and  occasional  articles ; 
and  it  was  with  surprise  that  he  found  himself  thinking 
more  easily  and  swiftly  in  French  than  in  English.  He 
could  write  French  verse,  in  the  strict  form  of  sonnet  or 
ballade,  but  for  all  his  ease  he  knew  it  was  harder  to 
write  prose  than  verse,  whether  in  French  or  English. 
And  even  when  he  was  once  more  in  England,  and  could 
write  '  acceptable '  English  verse,  the  ordinary  newspaper 
prose  was  beyond  his  reach.  Verses  quoted  in  Confessions 
of  a  Young  Man  are  meant  to  show  the  kind  of  poem 
admired  in  France  when  it  was  written  in  French  and 
translated  into  English ;  for  surely  that,  and  not  the 
reverse,  must  have  been  the  process. 

'  We  are  alone  !     Listen,  a  little  while. 
And  hear  the  reason  why  your  weary  smile 
And  lute-toned  speaking  are  so  very  sweet. 
And  how  my  love  for  you  is  more  complete 
Than  any  love  of  any  lover.     They 
Have  only  been  attracted  by  the  gray 
Delicious  softness  of  your  eyes,  your  slim 
And  delicate  form,  or  some  such  other  whim. 
The  simple  pretexts  of  all  lovers  : — I 
For  other  reason.' 

It  is,  he  cries  : — 

'  Happiness  to  know  that  you  are  far 
From  any  base  desires  as  that  fair  star 


68 

Set  in  the  evening  magnitude  of  heaven. 
Death  takes  but  little^  yea,  your  death  has  given 
Me  that  deep  peace,  and  that  secure  possession 
Which  man  may  never  find  in  earthly  passion/ 

Pictorial  verse,  truly,  verse  of  the  studio,  verse  queerly 
sentimental,  verse  to  which  you  listen  with  a  sense  of  the 
intellectual  abasement  and  depravity  that  follow  the  hear- 
ing of  an  English  drawing-room  song.  Flowers  of  Passion, 
published  in  1878,  and  Pagan  Poem*,  published  three  years 
later,  comprise  nearly  all  his  verse,  and  neither  volume  has 
a  present  value  except  in  the  eyes  of  men  who  collect 
scarce  books  and  grow  rich  by  selling  them  again. 
Swinburne  speaks  in  the   Ode  to  a  Dead  Body : — 

'  Is  it  a  garden  of  eternal  sleep 

Where  dreams  laugh  not  or  weep  ? 
A  place  of  quiet  below  the  tides  of  life 
Afar  from  toil  or  strife  ?  * 

and  the  most  innocent  Swinburne  in  the  '  audacious ' 
Moore  who  wrote  : — 

*  Poor  breasts !  whose  nipples  sins  alone  have  fed.  .  .  . 
Poor  lily  hands  steeped  in  the  mire  of  shame.' 

Sins,  strange  sins  and  fuliginous  remorse  form  the  subject 
of  these  poems,  which  are  immature  even  for  the  im- 
maturest  writer ;  and  it  is  wonderful  that  he  should  have 
been  so  well  pleased  with  the  Baudelaire-Swinburne  of 
the  earlier  book  as  to  reprint  some  of  its  contents  in 
Pagan  Poems.  The  book  was  denounced  by  Edmund 
Yates  (who  appears  to  have  usurped  some  authority  in 
his  own  day)  under  the  heading  of  'A  Bestial  Bard,'  a 
folly  by  no  means  discouraging  to  the  young  poet.  It 
is  a  dreadful  thought  that  George  Moore  might  have 
persisted  in  his  devotion  to  verse,  and  indeed  have 
become  a  prominent  member  of  the  Fleshly  School  of 
Poetry ;  for  the  flesh  has  the  whole  field  in  these  small 


69 

volumes,  and  despair  only  saved  the  author  from  becoming 
a  prolific  bad  poet.  How  strong  and  how  obscure  was  the 
vital  instinct  for  prose  may  be  judged  from  the  curious 
fact  that  the  verse  which  he  discarded  after  1881  was, 
qiia  verse,  so  much  better  than  the  prose,  qua  prose, 
which  he  hugged  to  his  bosom  and  pored  upon  by  day 
and  by  night,  with  the  fidelity  of  a  dog  and  the  assurance 
of  a  swallow.  .  .  .  Time  passes  quickly  with  young  writers, 
and  three  years  before  thirty  may  witness  greater  changes 
than  ten  after  thirty  ;  but  in  1881  Moore  stood,  as  regards 
poetry  and  its  spell,  very  much  where  I  find  him  forty 
years  later,  for  it  was  not  poetry  but  prose  that  he  was 
born  to  write  ;  and  hard  though  he  has  found  it  to  write 
simple  prose,  infinitely  hard  to  write  his  later  and  better 
prose,  it  was  lucky  that  he  did  not  increase  his  difficulties 
by  confusing  them  with  the  no  less  tyrannous  and  subtle 
difficulties  of  verse.  An  acute  critical  demon  saved  him 
from  pursuing  English  poetry,  and  he  is  aware  of  that 
mercy,  for  he  still  sees  that  he  cannot  express  himself 
in  verse  as  he  can  in  prose.  He  remains  interested  in 
English  poetry,  scarcely  less  than  in  French,  yet  I  wonder 
in  which  his  appreciation  is  more  limited.  Certainly  in 
English  poetry  his  idols  are  few,  and  they  are  what  they 
have  always  been — Shelley  and  Swinburne.  His  loyalty 
to  these  first  loves  may  appear  remarkable  if  you  forget 
that  it  results  from  the  almost  childlike  simplicity  of 
affection  which  is  a  part  of  his  many-stranded  character. 
It  endures  even  while  he  admits  to  himself  that  he  will 
never  be  a  poet,  as  he  once  whispered  that  he  would 
never  be  a  painter.  He  may  still  write  French  verse, 
but  he  will  no  longer  pipe  for  English  ears  that  have 
listened  to  Meredith,  Hardy  and  Doughty;  and  if  I 
surmise  that,  with  the  eternal  exception  of  Shelley,  he 
most  admires  the  verse  that  has  the  best  qualities  of 
French  form,  rather  than  the  ampler  harmonies  and 
varieties  of  our  English  muse,  he  will  scarcely  dissemble 


70 

his  agreement.  Ten  years  in  Paris,  those  early  im- 
pressionable  years,  determined  not  only  his  judgment 
of  pictures  but  his  affection  for  poetry  also  ;  it  is  only 
in  prose  that  he  has  travelled. 

Before  he  was  thirty,  then,  he  had  realized  quite 
suddenly  that  minor  poetry  would  not  be  an  occupation 
for  a  lifetime,  and  so  precisely  is  this  discovery  remem- 
bered that  he  can  even  localize  it,  the  very  place  at  the 
corner  of  Wellington  Street  in  the  Strand ; — indeed,  as 
Meredith  says,  a  fitting  spot  to  dig  love's  grave.  Painting 
and  poetry  had  failed  him,  and  the  heavenly  vision  still 
beckoning,  prose  only  remained ;  and  you  may  read  in 
Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  how  bitter  was  the  pursuit — 
nay,  you  may  read  it  in  book  after  book,  now  admiring 
the  courage  and  now  marvelling  at  the  failure. 

What  he  has  said  there  is  but  what  he  has  said  in  many 
other  places  and  on  a  dozen  other  occasions.  He  recalls, 
for  instance,  with  a  quite  dispassionate  humour,  Wilde's 
remark  that  Moore  had  to  write  for  seven  years  before  he 
knew  there  was  such  a  thing  as  grammar,  shouting  out 
then  his  amazing  discovery  ;  and  then  he  had  to  write 
another  seven  years  before  he  found  that  a  paragraph  was 
architectural,  and  again  could  not  conceal  his  astonish- 
ment. And  he  wonders  even  yet  why  learning  has  always 
been  so  hard  for  him,  and  can  only  sigh  amusedly  as  he 
adds  that  he  could  always  learn  what  he  wanted  to  learn, 
without  precisely  showing  what  that  was.  Wilde  was 
right,  he  agrees  :  '  I  did  not  know — I  simply  did  not  know 
how  to  write,  and  even  now,  after  more  than  forty  years' 
diligence,  I've  almost  as  much  trouble  with  grammar  as 
with  spelling  ;  it's  incredible,  the  trouble  I  have  to  take, 
in  order  to  produce  even  the  passable  sentences  which 
other  men  write  unthinkingly.  And  the  strange  thing 
was,  I  had  given  up  painting  because  I  couldn't  express 
myself  in   paint,  and  poetry  because  I  couldn't  express 


71 

myself  in  verse,  although  in  painting  and  in  versing  I 
could  do  passably  enough.  My  drawing  was  not  common 
like  Marshall's,  and  I  could  do  tolerably  well  if  the  model 
happened  upon  an  attitude  which  I  could  use.  And  my 
verse  was — what  you  see  (for  my  pictures,  you  can't  and 
will  never  see  them) ;  at  least  correct,  rather  sensitive  if 
not  very  impulsive  ;  and  I  gave  that  up  too  for  the  same 
reason.  But  if  you  ask  why,  when  I  found  1  couldn't 
express  myself  in  prose,  I  didn't  give  prose  up  as  well, 
there's  but  one  answer.  .  .  .  What  is  it  ? — Well,  it  was 
the  stoi-y  that  held  me  in  thrall,  the  story  that  was  and  is 
my  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci.  I've  always  been  able  to 
conceive,  to  invent  a  story,  and  though  I  couldn't  write, 
I  found  that  I  could  learn  because  I  wanted  to  learn. 
Words  I  have  always,  and  in  abundance,  and  an  ear  for 
rhythm  ;  my  enduring  foe  is  composition.' 

His  drawing,  in  fact,  was  '  common  '  in  prose.  I  do  not 
know  of  a  finer  example  of  the  industrious  apprentice  than 
George  Moore  offers  to  the  faint  yet  pursuing  writer ;  nor 
a  more  candid  admission  of  literary  impotence  than  he 
makes  in  speaking  of  his  early  work.  The  prose  of  A 
Mummers  Wife,  for  instance,  is  bad,  and  he  quite  meekly 
acknowledges  it : — '  The  book  isn't  written  at  all ;  you 
can't  call  a  collection  of  sentences,  or  half-sentences, 
prose,  any  more  than  you  can  call  the  inhabitants  of  a 
hospital  an  effective  regiment.  The  halt,  the  maimed, 
and  the  blind  do  not  make  prose,  even  if  now  and  again 
a  phrase  stands  upright,  or  a  sentence  moves  of  its  own 
power,  or  a  whole  paragraph  luckily  disguises  the  general 
tendency  to  locomotor  ataxia.  Esther  Waters  wasn't  my 
first  novel,  but  if  you  have  any  doubt  of  the  truth  of 
what  I  am  saying,  you  need  but  compare  the  opening 
chapter  in  the  original  edition  with  the  same  chai)ter  in 
the  revised  edition.  It  isn't  prejudice,  or  perverted 
modesty ;  I  know  when  the  writing  is  passable,  and 
that    is    why   (answering    a   question)   the    passage   you 


72 

quote  concerning  the  flood  of  gold,  the  dear  gold,  rolling 
into  the  little  town,  was  untouched  in  the  revision.  But 
that's  an  exception.  Sometimes  I  stumbled  upon  a  felicity, 
but  most  often  stumbled  a  thousand  miles  from  it.* 

It  is  tempting  but  inopportune  to  ask  by  what  miracle 
of  patience  the  prose  thus  laboriously  learned  has  come  to 
wear  so  perfectly  the  appearance  of  nativeness ;  yet  I  must 
interpolate  the  remark  that,  wanting  that  miraculous 
patience,  the  pen  still  stumbles  and  the  drawing  is  still 
common.  Thus  a  letter  in  which  he  sought  to  answer 
certain  criticisms  in  a  weekly  journal  on  The  Brook 
Kerithy  a  long  and  acute  letter,  contains  evidence  enough 
that  the  closeness  of  the  argument  and  the  brevity  of 
time  have  prevented  the  author's  attending  to  his  p's 
and  q's.  A  mere  '  would '  for  '  should  *  is  venial,  but 
the  absence  of  all  characteristic  qualities  is  a  graver 
matter,  and  serves  to  illustrate  Moore's  admission  that 
only  by  a  persistent  wooing  is  the  sullen  irresponsiveness 
of  prose  overcome.  True  the  grosser  flaws  are  missing, 
but  forty  years  have  passed  and  even  the  wilful  mind 
slowly  acquires  the  habits  of  that  in  which  it  works  ; 
yet  none  the  less  haste  is  still  the  enemy  of  that  leisured 
lightness,  that  supple  willow-like  waving  of  images,  which 
in  the  later  books  persuades  you  into  thinking  how  easy  it 
must  be  to  write  well,  since  the  writing  is  so  unstrained  in 
its  natural  delight. 

Let  us  not,  however,  anticipate  that  perfection.  The 
business  of  a  writer  being  to  write,  and  the  absence  of 
that  primary  power  rendering  worthless  a  thousand 
secondary  powers,  it  is  proper  to  note  more  exactly 
George  Moore's  early  qualifications,  if  that  term  be  not 
too  misleading ;  and  let  us  take  the  novel  already  referred 
to,  A  Mummer  s  Wife,  by  no  means  the  least  excellent  of 
the  earlier  novels.  Now  if  words  be  more  than  names  of 
things  and  acts,  a  single  sentence  will  be  sufficient  to  show 
how  poorly  words  are  used  in  the   decent,  hardworking 


73 

prose  of  A  Mummer^s  Wife.  True  that  the  defect  can  be 
assigned,  if  you  will,  to  a  sedulous  naturalism,  to  a  desire 
to  be  literal  and,  in  common  phrase,  let  the  facts  speak 
for  themselves;  but  at  the  present  moment  I  am  con- 
cerned to  note  the  quality  rather  than  excuse  it. 

Let  me  choose,  therefore,  a  passage  in  which  the  author 
may,  if  he  wish,  find  a  temptation  to  avoid  this  solid 
literality,  a  passage  of  that  reminiscent  kind  which  has 
become  Moore's  lucky  medium  : — 

'Montgomery  was  as  light  to  Kate,  and  soon  he 
became  almost  as  necessary  to  her  spiritual  happiness 
as  her  lover  was  to  her  material.  He  was  so  kind, 
so  gentle,  and  he  allowed  her  to  talk  to  him  as  much 
as  she  liked  of  Dick.  Indeed  he  seemed  quite  as 
much  interested  in  the  subject  as  she  was.  It  was 
always  Dick,  Dick,  Dick.  He  told  her  anecdotes 
concerning  him — how  he  had  acted  certain  parts; 
how  he  had  stage-managed  certain  pieces  ;  of  supper- 
parties  ;  of  adventures  they  had  been  engaged  in. 
These  stories  amused  Kate,  although  the  odour  of 
woman  in  which  they  were  bathed,  as  in  an  atmo- 
sphere, annoyed  and  troubled  her.  As  if  to  repay  him 
for  his  kindness,  she,  in  her  turn,  became  confidential, 
and  one  day  she  told  him  the  story  of  her  life.' 

In  Modem  Painting  he  has  been  troubled  to  define  his 
use  of  the  term  '  values,'  insisting  upon  the  meaning  of 
proportion  and  relation  in  the  use  of  light  and  colour,  a 
note  of  music,  a  colour  in  painting,  acquiring  beauty 
according  to  its  association;  hence  the  necessity  of  the 
musician  or  the  painter  knowing  intimately  what  it  is  that 
secures  contrast  and  similitude.  The  recital  may  seem 
primitive,  but  it  indicates  the  fault  of  this  prose  The 
phrases  contribute  no  more  than  their  lowest  meaning, 
for  they  are  but  a  series  of  phrases,  lacking  co-ordination 
and  luminousness,  giving  nothing  and  owing  nothing  to 
one   another.     'Beginning   at    the   beginning,   she   gave 


74 

rapidly  an  account  of  her  childhood,  accentuating  the 
religious  and  severe  manner  in  which  she  had  been 
brought  up,  until  the  time  when  she  and  her  mother 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Edes.'  Formal  speech 
could  not  be  colder,  grammatical  clauses  might  never 
spare  less  of  light  and  warmth  and  movement,  in  a 
passage  in  which  a  young  woman,  thrilled  with  love,  is 
recalling  the  most  intimate  of  her  early  memories. 
Strange  that  the  meticulous  revision  of  the  story  in  1918 
should  have  found  the  sentence  passable :  nothing  could 
be  less  associative,  nothing  less  imaginative.  From  the 
same  page  you  may  pick  the  same  insentient  phrases — 
affinities  of  sentiment,  sweetest  currents  of  emotion, 
moments  of  divine  abandonment,  inexpressibly  dear, 
delightful  sensations  of  enthusiasm.  .  .  .  This  is  not  prose, 
it  is  not  speech,  it  is  not  even  reporting — it  is  merely 
print.  The  writing  of  Thomas  Hardy,  especially  in  the 
earlier  novels,  is  at  times  conspicuously  awkward  ('  What 
can  be  more  pudding  ? '  cries  our  sardonic  author), 
betraying  an  imperfect  mastery  of  speech ;  but  even  in 
the  earlier  novels,  as  so  frequently  in  the  later,  there  are 
pages  of  felicity  and  beauty.  But  with  Moore  the  case  is 
altered ;  seldom  does  he  write  awkwardly,  and  yet  infeli- 
citousness  is  constant  in  the  earlier  novels ;  partly,  I 
think,  because  the  literal ity  at  which  he  aims  is  in  itself 
a  harsh  and  delusive  quality,  and  partly  because,  as  yet, 
he  cannot  help  himself  whatever  his  aim.  The  details 
do  not  '  compose '  anything  at  all,  and  while  superfluous 
detail  is  usually  avoided,  significant  detail  is  likewise 
wanting.  And  when,  in  the  last  chapter  of  A  Mummer  s 
Wife,  the  narrative  cries  for  something  to  mollify  the 
crudeness  of  the  pain,  you  meet  with  sentences  which 
merely  vex  and  exasperate : — 

'  It  was  like  a  costume  ball,  where  chastity  grinned 
from  behind  a  mask  that  vice  was  looking  for,  while 
vice  hid   his  nakedness  in  some  of  the  robes  that 


75 

chastity  had  let  fall.  Thus  up  and  down,  like  dice 
thrown  by  demon  players,  were  rattled  the  two  lives, 
the  double  life  that  this  weak  woman  had  so 
miserably  lived  through.* 

Disharmony  is  doing  its  worst. — Later  on  I  shall  have  to 
speak  of  the  same  disharmony  in  the  characterization  of 
the  concluding  chapters  of  the  book,  but  at  this  point  I 
am  concerned  merely  to  observe  the  maladroit  intrusion  of 
the  wrong  note  into  the  writing  itself,  and  its  dissipation 
of  the  proper  and  sombre  horror  which  it  is  intended  to 
deepen. 

In  A  Mummef-'s  Wife  the  difficulties  of  grammar,  of 
which  our  author  so  frankly  confesses  himself  a  victim, 
have  been  overcome  or  disguised,  and  the  writing  is  no 
worse,  perhaps,  than  that  of  a  dozen  novelists  whom  we 
read  for  the  frivolous  story's  sake  ;  but  what  is  surprising 
is  that  the  author  of  such  frigid  and  inexpressive  prose 
should  ever  have  discovered,  even  slowly,  in  later  books 
the  '  control  of  his  values,*  and  not  only  avoided  infelicities, 
but  achieved  a  mastery  which  in  its  kind  is  unique.  Prose 
being  an  art,  it  would  be  an  unamusing  paradox  to  say 
that  Moore's  case  suggests  that  a  bad  writer  may  become 
a  good  writer  merely  by  taking  pains,  but  the  present  case 
proves  nothing  but  the  difficulty  of  art.  Infinite  pains 
would  not  have  given  us  the  style  of  The  Brook  Kerith  if 
he  had  not  been  a  born  writer,  though  born  to  an  inheri- 
tance, or  an  office,  which  for  years  he  could  not  realize ; 
and  the  fact  that  a  candid  reader  will  deny  the  faintest 
signs  of  the  later  writing  in  any  of  the  earlier  books  must 
remain  what  it  is — a  singular,  inexplicable  truth.  Theory 
misled  him,  and  the  influence  of  alien  models ;  he  knew 
too  much  of  French  and  too  little  of  English  writers ;  and 
for  years  he  was  struggling,  first  against  his  native  powers 
and  tendencies,  and  then  again  to  recover  them.  It  was 
only  by  struggling  that  the  writer  in  him  was  saved,  but 
the    writer    was    in    him    all    the    time — an    emaciated, 


76 

impoverished  spirit,  kept  faintly  alive,  full  of  hesitations 
and  misgivings,  but  slowly  gathering  strength  from  the 
simple  failure  of  the  alien  to  extinguish  the  native. 

To  the  writing  of  prose  which  was  even  less  articulate 
than  that  of  A  Mummer  s  Wife,  Moore's  earliest  years  in 
London  were  devoted.  Necessity  dictated  journalism  and 
ragged  rooms  in  a  Strand  lodging-house,  of  which,  as  of 
his  fellow-lodgers  and  'the  awful  servant,  Emma,'  his 
memory  is  vivid  enough.  That  note  of  unsympathetic 
externalism,  which  can  be  fairly  challenged  in  other  books, 
begins  to  appear  in  his  story  of  Emma ;  for  he  was  curious 
to  ask  her  all  sorts  of  cruel  questions,  in  order  to  plumb 
her  depth  of  animalism.  Sometimes  his  questions  were 
too  cruel,  striking  through  what  he  terms  the  thick  hide 
into  the  human,  and  Emma  would  wince  ;  but  his  intelli- 
gence saw  her  as  very  nearly  an  animal — one  of  the  facts 
of  civilization.  Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  all  his  wanton- 
ness of  speech,  in  another  kind,  more  distressing  and 
deplorable  than  this,  but  it  is  half  pardonable — like  those 
other  offences — because  it  is  only  half  truthful ;  later 
passages  showing  that  he  was  kinder  than  he  chose  to 
appear,  and  that  what  he  perversely  dissembled  was  not 
an  inhuman  indifference,  but  a  human  warmth.  Few 
characters,  indeed,  present  a  less  obscure  enigma  than  the 
character  of  George  Moore ;  his  secrets  are  usually  open 
secrets,  and  he  most  artfully  disorders  those  qualities 
which  it  is  most  impossible  to  mistake. 

Living  on  two  pounds  a  week  in  a  Strand  lodging-house, 
with  an  unsuccessful  actress  for  neighbour  and  poor  Emma 
for  specimen,  our  naturalist  and  realist  began  journalism, 
seeking  to  express  ideas  that  were  like  unripe  apples. 
He  did  more — he  read  his  contemporaries  as  he  reads 
them  no  longer,  and  for  our  amusement  and  astonishment 
he  has  left  the  most  unreserved  record  of  his  opinions. 
Henry  James  in  those  days  had  not  written  The  Wings  of 


77 

the  Dove,  The  Golden  Bowl,  The  Two  Magics,  or  the  dozen  of 
short  stories  which  have  delighted  our  intelligence  in  the 
last  twenty-five  years ;  but  he  had  written  The  Portrait  of  a 
Lady,  and  it  is  in  speaking  of  this  that  Moore  murmurs — 
'  Empty  and  endless  sentimentalities/  He  tells  in  Avofvals 
how  he  discussed  this  novel  with  James,  and  how  an 
expression  of  envy  passed  over  his  friend's  vast  face  when 
he  described  the  subject  of  A  Modem  Lover.  I  imagine 
it  was  not  with  envy  that  Henry  James  read  it.  .  .  .  Moore 
read  also  Mr.  Hardy  and  Blackmore  and  is  able  to  speak 
of  them  in  one  breath — of  the  former,  indeed,  with  a 
disdain  which  in  1888  was  merely  ludicrous,  and  which 
in  1922  is  something  worse.  I  am  reminded  that  in 
writing  of  the  revelation  which  Marius  the  Epicureaji 
brought  to  him,  he  talks  of  a  sweet  depravity  of  ear, 
meaning,  I  suppose.  Pater's  ear ;  but  surely  the  phrase 
describes  his  own  in  1888.  It  is  not,  however,  my  present 
purpose  to  discuss  George  Moore  as  a  critic,  but  to  note 
the  thoughts  that  eddied  in  his  mind  when  he  started  to 
write  himself,  and  to  point  out  the  beginnings  of  that 
absolute  unreserve  of  judgment  which  has  always  been 
characteristic  of  his  attitude.  Let  me  but  add,  that  when 
the  preface  to  a  new  edition  (1904)  of  Confessions  of 
a  Young  Man  was  written,  our  author — earless  and  un- 
abashed as  Defoe — found  but  one  thing  to  withdraw,  a 
reference  to  George  Eliot,  whom  he  had  over-praised — 
singular  excess !  Constant  reviser  as  he  is,  ruthless  with 
himself  and  as  ruthless  with  others,  he  found  nothing  else 
to  revise  in  this  early  deluding  book. 

It  was  because  of  such  opinions  as  these,  as  well  as 
because  his  English  was  as  yet  rotten  with  French  idiom, 
that  literary  criticism  was  soon  closed  to  him,  at  any  rate 
as  far  as  leading  journals  were  concerned  ;  but  still  he 
wrote  and  translated  play  and  opera  and  short  story. 
Some  of  the  short  stories  were  printed,  and  so  it  was  that 
our  author  sank  into  the  literary  world  or  half- world  of 


78 

London.  He  could  not  learn  to  see  life  paragraphically, 
yet  the  book  in  which  his  adventures  are  dustily  shown 
for  perusal  suggests  that  no  other  view  of  life  was  possible 
for  him.  But  he  longed  for  fame  and  notoriety,  and 
again  and  again  avows  his  shamelessness  and  his  pride  in 
it,  bringing  for  proof  the  duel  which  he  tried  to  force 
upon  a  ^beautiful  young  lord.'.  .  .  Let  the  phrase  pass, 
and  that  still  more  egregious  phrase — '  he  is  now,  if  he 
will  allow  me  to  say  so,  a  friend.'  It  was  for  this  duel 
that  his  old  friend,  Marshall,  rehabilitated  by  success,  was 
called  from  Paris  to  London ;  for  our  author  had  grasped 
the  advantage  at  once — a  duel  with  a  lord  and  all  the 
Conservative  press  on  the  lord's  side  and  all  the  Liberal 
press  on  the  author's.  Need  it  be  said  that  the  duel  did 
not  take  place  ?  Letters  passed,  and  George  Moore 
returned  to  his  ragged  rooms  in  the  Strand,  to  resume  the 
writing  of  his  first  novel  with  a  far  more  genuine  passion 
than  he  could  apply  to  anything  else  in  the  world. 

Almost  as  ludicrous  is  that  other  episode  related  by 
Whistler's  biographers.  Moore,  we  are  told,  had  intro- 
duced Sir  William  Eden  to  Whistler  in  1894,  and  a 
portrait  of  Lady  Eden  was  the  result.  A  dispute  followed 
concerning  the  price  to  be  paid,  and  legal  proceedings 
were  begun.  The  decision  of  the  case,  which  was  tried 
in  France,  was  adverse  to  the  painter,  and  a  sharp  con- 
troversy between  Whistler  and  Moore  led  to  Whistler, 
who  was  then  in  France,  challenging  Moore  and  sending 
to  England  as  his  seconds  M.  Octave  Mirabeau  and 
another.  For  all  his  slighting  and  foolish  criticism  of 
Whistler,  I  do  not  imagine  that  Moore  wanted  to  murder 
him,  or  that  Whistler  was  anxious  to  rob  the  future  of 
a  book  which  might  surely  rejoice  his  own  delicate 
perceptions — The  Lake.  Happy  it  was,  then,  that  the 
affair  ended  with  the  seconds. 

An  amazing  young  man,  he  calls  the  subject  of 
Confessions,  looking  back  over  sixteen  years.     Audacious 


79 

Moore,  was  Walter  Pater's  term,  which  is  recalled  with 
pride  and  fondness  ;  but  it  is  scarcely  the  term  we  should 
employ  now,  although  we  should  agree  with  ^  the  author 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  prose  books,'  Imaginary 
Portraits,  that  Audacious  Moore  was  losing  by  his  cynical 
and  therefore  exclusive  way  of  looking  at  the  world.  It 
is  only  too  true.  The  young  man  was  losing  heavily  and 
all  but  irretrievably,  and  if  I  have  touched  too  often  upon 
the  book  in  which  the  young  man  first  attempted 
literature,  it  is  by  no  means  because  I  share  Pater's 
assurance  of  its  literary  faculty,  but  because  the  book 
frankly  and  eagerly  proclaims  the  personality  of  its  author 
in  the  sharpest  pangs  of  birth.  The  writing  of  Confessions 
occupied  the  summer  of  1887,  the  wonderful  Jubilee 
summer,  spent  at  Southwick,  upon  which  Moore  looks 
back  so  often  and  so  fondly.  His  visit  had  been  intended 
to  last  but  two  or  three  days,  and  really  lasted  two  or 
three  years ;  and  in  a  lodging  overlooking  the  village 
green,  in  the  most  English  of  English  counties,  in  that 
year  of  the  expiring  sputter  of  English  parochialism,  that 
year  in  which  the  spirit  we  now  so  perversely  detest  or 
despise  looked  for  a  while  eternal,  George  Moore  toiled 
at  his  exotic  chapters.  Pity  that  we  cannot  feel  any  more 
cordiality  for  them  than  for  that  Victorianism  which  he 
and  we  equally  abhor!  His  exoticism  has  been  dis- 
carded, for  thirty  years  is  a  long  span  in  an  artist's  life  ; 
and  far  more  beautiful — and  as  clearly  in  the  English 
tradition  as  the  green  and  the  downs — are  the  few  pages 
of  Ave  describing  his  Southwick  life,  than  any  part  of  the 
earlier  Confessions. 

Enough  has  been  said  of  the  qualities  of  Moore's  early 
prose  to  permit  me  now  to  look  at  the  novels  under  other 
aspects.  I  do  not  propose  to  follow  our  author  faithfully 
through  time  to  eternity,  and  in  turning  to  his  first  novel, 
A  Modem  Lover,  written  in  such  a  smoky  atmosphere  as 


80 

we  have  briefly  whifFed,  the  excuse  is^  of  course,  that  after 
years  of  neglect  it  was  re-written  and  issued  in  1917 
under  a  new  title — Lewis  Seymour  and  Some  Women — with 
a  preface  betraying  an  author's  unhappy  fondness  for  his 
first-born.  A  Modem  Lover ,  he  says,  was  the  work  of  a 
young  man  who  in  a  moment  of  inspiration  hit  upon  an 
excellent  anecdote  and,  being  without  skill,  devised  an 
uncouth  text  out  of  memories  of  Balzac,  Zola  and  Gon- 
court ;  yet  it  was  such  a  true  and  beautiful  anecdote  that 
it  carried  a  badly  written  book  into  his  collected  works. 
The  anecdote  is  simple  enough — three  women  work  for  a 
young  artist's  welfare  ;  the  first  is  a  work-girl,  the  second 
a  rich  woman,  and  the  third  ^  a  lady  of  high  degree ' ;  and 
the  first  alone  retains  all  her  faith,  the  second  loses  part 
of  it  and  the  third  loses  all.  Let  us  freely  admit  the 
truth  of  the  anecdote,  in  order  that  we  may  consider  the 
more  carefully  its  beauty.  But  its  beauty  can  only  consist 
in  its  treatment,  a  dogma  which  needs  no  buttress,  yet 
which  so  much  of  Moore's  work  nevertheless  supports ; 
its  beauty  is  an  effect,  an  impression  which  may  be 
communicated  and  noted.  The  effect  will  probably  be 
found  in  the  characters,  as  much  as  in  the  incident,  and  a 
review  of  A  Modem  Lover  reminds  me  that  only  one  of 
the  chief  characters  has  attractiveness,  Lucy  Bentham  ; 
she  alone  contributes  to  an  impression  of  beauty,  or  at 
least  to  a  pathetic  aspect  which  may  serve  in  the  absence 
of  beauty ;  and  if,  as  Moore  has  said,  the  first  business  of 
a  writer  is  to  find  a  human  instinct,  it  is  found  in  this 
happy-unhappy  woman.  Lucy  Bentham  is  a  figure  cast 
in  the  old  mould,  the  maternal  mistress,  and  the  pathos  of 
her  situation  is  clear  enough ;  and  as  clear  is  the  pathos 
of  that  minor  person  in  the  story,  Gwennie  Lloyd,  the 
first  of  the  women  who  suffered  so  that  Lewis  Seymour 
might  succeed.  But  the  anecdote  is  without  the  light 
and  shadow  of  beauty ;  what  dominates  it  is  not  the 
sacrifice  of  the  three  women,  but  the  vulgar  egoism  of 


81 

their  idol.  They  gave  what  they  could,  only  to  be 
displaced  in  giving ;  and  the  worthlessness  of  the  idol  is 
but  a  cynical  commentary  upon  that  giving.  Moral  the 
book  assuredly  is,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  its  too  insistent 
morality  does  not  support  the  cynicism  in  expelling 
beauty.  ...  It  is,  let  me  repeat,  a  first  novel,  and  need 
not  be  judged  severely  :  it  need  hardly  be  judged  at 
all,  but  for  Moore's  tenderness  in  re-writing  it  and 
re-presenting  the  'truth  and  beauty'  of  the  anecdote. 

Is  it  unpleasant  to  dwell  upon  what  one  deplores  ? 
Criticism  flourishes  quite  happily  as  an  art  of  complaint, 
and  there  are  good  reasons  why  a  hundred  things  may  be 
shown  in  blame,  for  one  that  may  be  hinted  in  praise  of  a 
subject.  I  cannot  find  the  single  point  for  praise  in 
Lewis  Seymour  and  Some  Women,  except  the  ease  of  style 
which  has  grown,  as  we  have  seen,  almost  natural,  and 
which  has  in  this  book  become  a  little  lax  ;  but  there  is 
an  enormous  complaint  to  be  uttered.  To  put  it  briefly, 
the  anecdote  has  been  deliberately  and  grossly  sensualized, 
and  the  further  degradation  of  Lewis  Seymour,  with  the 
degradation  of  his  women,  makes  beauty  more  impossible 
than  mere  cynicism  might.  'These  words  made  it  plain 
to  Lewis  that  if  he  could  persuade  Lucy  to  condone  his 
conduct  and  forget  it,  he  would  one  day  be  admitted  to 
her  bedroom.'  That  sentence  is  a  summary  of  the  book. 
Reiterated  lecheries,  is  Rabelais'  term  for  the  subject ;  a 
joyous  composition,  surely  !  is  Moore's  phrase  for  the  book 
in  which  he  employs  it.  ...  I  think  it  is  the  sole 
instance  of  his  ruining  a  poor  book  by  revision  or  re- 
writing; and  he  has  ruined  it  because  the  revision  was 
conceived  in  a  perverse  mood — was  it  merely  for  the  sake 
of  shocking  his  amanuensis? — while  bathing  and  medi- 
tating upon  the  imperfection  of  his  first  novel.  The 
reader  too  might  crave  for  a  bath  when  he  had  finished  it. 

I  remember  that  there  was  lately  in  London  a  respect- 
able brick    building   occupied   by  an    honest   tradesman 

G 


82 

One  day  it  was  seized  upon  by  a  contractor^  who  cut  away 
the  front,  demolished  the  decent  brick,  thrust  in  steel 
joists  beneath  the  unwalled  floors,  and  then  built  up — on 
four  columns  of  Portland  stone — a  new  stucco  front  with 
an  elaborate  cornice,  above  which  the  old  roof  still  rose 
steep.  The  stucco  was  finished  to  look  like  stone,  but  the 
stone  refused  to  look  like  stucco,  and  the  building  remains 
now  a  sad  and  haunting  image  of  uncostly  sham. 

He  went  back  to  Moore  Hall  to  write  the  novel  which 
helped  him  to  realize  his  own  powers,  using  for  it  many 
experiences  acquired  in  London.  In  London  he  had 
undertaken  an  English  libretto  for  Les  Cloches  de  Cojyie- 
ville,  for  which  the  original  of  poor  Dick  Lennox  had 
given  him  £30  ;  and  in  London  the  Gaiety  bar  (in  which 
he  so  innocently  hoped  to  find  another  Nouvelle  Athenes) 
yielded  both  directly  and  indirectly  much  of  the  matter 
for  A  Mummer  s  Wife.  How  much  more  serious  a  book 
that  is  than  its  unfortunate  predecessor  needs  no  telling 
now,  and  what  has  been  said  of  the  writing  of  it  must  not 
blind  us  to  the  excellence  of  one  of  the  best  of  all  English 
novels  written  to  a  formula.  I  have  said  that  the  prose- 
writer  innate  in  George  Moore  was  slow  in  assuming  the 
freedom  of  nature,  and  it  is  equally  true  that  the  story- 
teller also  was  far  from  rejoicing  in  that  freedom  when 
A  Mummer  s  Wife  was  conceived.  Formulae  were  to  be  shed 
and  forgotten  before  his  true  work  could  be  attempted, 
but  A  Mummer  s  Wife  represents  the  transient  and  brilliant 
triumph  of  a  formula ;  and  perhaps  that  triumph  was 
necessary  in  order  that  our  author's  final  manner  might 
wear  the  aspect  of  reaction  and  another  triumph.  Within 
the  limits  of  meticulous  recording  and  careful  analysis, 
of  the  kind  to  which  Government  blue-books  have  inured 
us,  the  novel  is  an  almost  unique  success  ;  and  almost 
unique,  again,  among  its  author's  works  is  the  invocation 
of  moral  horror  to  whet  the  sense  of  tragedy.     It  is  the 


83 

most  exactingly  moral  of  all  George  Moore's  writings, 
but  the  particular  moral  is  implicit  and  not  expressed, 
and,  as  I  have  just  said,  is  subordinated  to  the  tragic 
purpose.  The  point  is  clearly  seen  in  a  single  glance 
at  a  single  character,  Dick  Lennox.  Kate's  moral  weak- 
ness, her  swelling  and  ebbing  wantonness,  is  heightened 
by  being  shown  against  the  quite  unmoral  and  unreflecting 
good-nature  of  the  fat  mummer.  Wanting  the  power  to 
hold  Dick  for  ever,  Kate  sinks  below  the  capacity  of  her 
nature ;  but  Dick,  grosser  and  more  buoyant,  floats  easily 
upon  the  waters  that  have  gone  over  her  head.  Tested 
by  the  standards  of  morality,  he  is  a  thought  lower  than 
Kate,  but  in  his  mere  grossness  he  is  more  human,  being 
as  incapable  of  her  best  as  of  her  worst.  Good-nature  as 
a  practical  basis  for  human  relations,  good-nature  just 
conscious  of  itself  and  of  the  lack  of  all  else —  is  this  that 
Dick  reveals ;  revealing  also  at  the  same  time  how  far  this 
serviceable  quality  will  carry  a  man  whose  moral  being  has 
never  known  pure  light.  There  is  nothing  else  to  be 
learned  by  a  repeated  reading  of  A  Mummer  s  Wife,  and  if 
it  be  thought  that  the  gain  of  knowing  that  is  little,  then 
I  have  failed  in  putting  the  case  for  its  author.  The 
inconstancy  of  the  human  factor  in  different  people — to 
assume  the  style  of  the  book — and  the  stability  of  animal 
vigour  when  a  finer  activity  has  died,  it  is  these  simple, 
forgotten  truths  that  the  novel  clearly  illustrates.  To 
see  it  as  a  sermon  against  drink  or  against  unfaithfulness 
in  husbands  is,  I  suppose,  possible  but  far  from  profitable ; 
yet  books  are  sometimes  considered  on  their  lowest  terms, 
and  it  is  stimulating  to  think  of  George  Moore  preaching 
on  either  subject. 

But  all  that  has  been  said  does  not  denude,  nor  is  it 
meant  to  denude,  the  tragedy  of  its  proper  horror.  Object 
as  you  will  to  the  farcical  impossibility  of  Mrs.  Forest, 
who  makes  love  to  Dick  while  his  wife  is  dying  of  drink — 
and  even  yet  poor  Dick,  sunken  to  that  lady's  property. 


84 

does  not  lose  his  hold  upon  our  good -nature,  for  his  own 
is  so  unfeigned — object  as  you  must,  the  tragedy  of  Kate 
is  still  true,  a  genuine  offering  to  the  tragic  Muse.  Few 
English  novels  prolong  more  surely  than  A  Mummers 
Wife  that  undertone  of  human  and  moral  at  war  which  is 
heard,  for  example,  in  Tolstoi,  in  whom  it  is,  indeed, 
never  quite  faint  and  at  length  rises  into  a  storm  of 
intolerable  discord.  The  Moore  that  wrote  this  book 
has  disappeared,  intelligence  or  something  less  easily 
definable  has  preyed  upon  him,  and  now  he  is  as  careful 
to  avoid  the  direct  moral  impression  as  then  he  was 
careless  to  deny  it.  Was  it  the  method  that  helped  him 
more  than  he  knew,  or  was  it  the  theme  that  possessed 
him,  and  dictated  all  but  the  words — pity  the  words  were 
left  to  the  author's  industry ! — and  gave  him  a  touch  of 
insight  beyond  what  was  common  to  his  years  ?  I  cannot 
say,  but  I  know  that  the  Moore  that  wrote  this  book  has 
disappeared  and  another  Moore  has  been  busy  over  his 
remains,  telling  us  things  maybe  that  we  cannot  think 
for  ourselves,  and  *  telling '  all  with  a  new  ease  of  per- 
suasive force.  The  face  changes — a  line,  a  quality,  a 
simplicity  perhaps,  has  gone ;  another  line,  another  look, 
another  quality  has  come,  perhaps  a  better  quality.  But 
the  quality  of  common  tragedy  has  gone;  the  face  has 
changed. 

An  interesting  point  is  recorded  in  the  1918  (revised) 
edition  of  this  novel,  which  was  dedicated  to  Robert  Ross. 
Ross,  it  seems,  thought  no  other  book  of  Moore's  so  likely 
to  live  as  A  Mummer  s  Wife,  saying  that  although  Esther 
Waters  speaks  out  of  a  deeper  appreciation  of  life,  in 
A  Mummer  s  Wife  there  is  a  youthful  imagination  and 
exuberance.  The  tribute  sets  Moore  wondering — *  If  I 
had  lived  here  before,  Jupiter  knows  what  1  should  have 
written,  but  it  would  not  have  been  Esther  Waters ;  more 
likely  a  book  like  A  Mummer  s  Wife — a  band  of  jugglers 
and  acrobats  travelling  from  town  to  town.'     An  antique 


85 

story  rises  up  in  his  mind,  a  recollection  of  one  of  his  lost 
works  or  an  instantaneous  reading  of  Apuleius  into  A 
Mummer  s  Wife — which?  But  he  dwells  no  longer  upon 
the  sombre  morality  of  the  primary  conception. 

The  face  has  changed,  I  said ;  but  it  did  not  change 
suddenly.  Change  is  seldom  sudden,  however  violent 
or  unforeseen  its  manifestation.  Moore  was  a  young  man 
when  he  wrote  this  novel  of  one  of  the  Five  Towns — it  is 
seductive  to  think  of  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  poring  over  it  in 
his  first  youth,  and  murmuring,  Hanley,  Hanley,  why  not } 
— and  only  two  years  older  when  he  followed  it  with  a 
book  so  differently  schemed  and  placed  as  A  Drama  in 
Muslin  ;  and  it  is  not  until  you  look  broadly  at  his  whole 
work  as  a  novelist  that  you  recognize  how  earnestly  he  has 
sought  the  greatest  extension  of  his  powers.  .  .  .  Moral ! 
The  moral  of  George  Moore's  whole  attitude  to  his  calling 
is  overwhelming,  the  moral  of  priest-like  devotion  to  the 
creating  of  a  sphere  in  which  his  characters,  the  most 
commonplace  in  the  world,  may  live  and  move  and  have 
their  being.  His  later  graces — and  graces  truly  is  the 
term — may  disguise  this  devotion,  but  a  moment  of  reflec- 
tion shows  it  as  enduring.  Even  in  the  beginning  it  was 
a  conscious  aim,  for  what  I  have  termed  the  sphere  of 
each  book — Hanley,  a  theatrical  touring  company  in  one, 
Dublin  Castle  in  another — was  a  sphere  visible  to  his  eye 
when  he  wrote,  and  visible  still  when  he  looks  back  and 
records  that  the  author  of  A  Drama  in  Muslin  seems  to 
have  meditated  a  sort  of  small  comedie  humaine,  a  medita- 
tion that  proved  fruitless  and  is  not  now  regretted.  It 
was,  he  thinks,  life  and  not  simply  its  envelope  that 
interested  him  in  planning  the  two  books ;  he  sought 
Alice  Barton's  heart  as  eagerly  as  Kate  Ede's ;  and 
plunging  a  little  deeper,  he  sees  that  far  less  accomplished 
author,  somewhat  surprisingly,  as  a  soul-searcher  with  a 
headlong,  uncertain  style,  and  beneath  the  style  a  real 


86 

interest  in  religious  questions,  and  a  hatred,  as  lively  as 
Ibsen's,  of  the  conventions  that  drive  women  into  the 
marriage  market. 

Ibsen  was  much  more  conspicuous  a  theme  for  discussion 
in  1886  than  he  is  to-day,  and  perhaps  we  hardly  appreci- 
ate the  significance  of  Moore's  comparison  of  A  Drama  in 
Muslin  with  A  Doll's  House.  He  points  out  that  the 
subject  of  the  two  books  is  the  same,  and  thinks  it  a 
feather  in  his  cap  that  a  young  man  of  thirty  should  have 
chosen  it  instinctively,  reminding  himself  and  us  very 
plainly  that  not  until  he  had  written  half  his  story  did  he 
hear  the  first  translation  of  A  Doll's  House.  Equally 
emphatic  is  his  statement  that  his  own  art,  however 
callow,  was  at  least  objective,  while  Ibsen  had  renounced 
all  objectivity  ;  but  he  confesses  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand A  Doll's  House,  being  too  much  absorbed  in  his 
own  work,  and  in  observing  and  remembering  life,  to  be 
interested  in  moral  ideas.  The  story  is  the  thing,  as 
we  must  constantly  remind  ourselves,  without,  however, 
restricting  too  narrowly  the  possibilities  of  the  story. 
He  had  chosen  to  write  of  a  ^puritan,'  but  not  of  a 
sexless  puritan;  and  his  story  of  Alice  Barton  frankly 
yields  him  the  same  kind  of  pleasure  as  a  good  drawing. 

And  having  said  so  much  of  the  author  of  A  Drama  in 
Muslin,  the  young  man  of  thirty  or  so  with  lank  yellow  hair 
(often  standing  on  end),  sloping  shoulders,  female  hands, 
and  an  engaging  vivacity  of  mind  (for  so  the  mirrors  of 
Dublin  Castle  yield  him  up  to  the  mature  writer  of  1915), 
he  cannot  but  regret  a  little  that  young  man's  failure  to 
make  a  comedie  humaine  out  of  the  later  history  of  Alice 
Barton  and  Violet  Sculley;  and  he  broods  upon  Violet's 
future  until  a  vague  shaggy  shape  emerges  and  a  typically 
Moorish  situation  is  breathed  fantastically  upon  the  air. 
Polyandry  has  settled  down  with  Christianity,  and  the 
practice  of  acquiring  a  mere  share  in  a  woman's  life,  rather 
than  insisting  on  the  whole  of  it,  has  taken  firm  root  in  our 


87 

civilization  ;  hence,  with  this  notion  firmly  rooted  in  his 
own  head  at  any  rate,  he  is  able  to  dream  of  the  poly- 
androus  Marchioness  of  Kilcarney,  and  picture  husband 
and  lover  discoursing  with  perfect  amity  and  aesthetic 
justice  upon  Violet's  perfections.  ...  A  very  ingenious 
story,  he  cries,  urging  against  it,  however,  the  grave 
improbability  that  three  people  ever  lived  contempor- 
aneously who  were  wise  enough  to  prefer,  and  prefer  so 
consistently,  happiness  to  convention. 

I  think  this  speculation  worth  pondering,  for  it  marks 
so  plainly  one  of  the  differences  between  George  Moore 
in  1886  and  George  Moore  in  1915.  The  former,  we  will 
agree,  would  have  written  such  a  sequel  as  is  suggested 
with  a  fumbling  hand,  or  would  have  shunned  the  subject 
altogether ;  the  simple  reason  being  that  the  subject,  as 
the  later  writer  contemplates  it,  is  not  an  imaginative  one, 
and  is  not  imaginatively  conceived,  but  is  rather  one  for 
such  a  sardonic  intellectual  exercise  as  his  own  phrase 
suggests  when  he  speaks  of  preferring  happiness  to  con- 
vention. I  cannot  regret,  then,  that  when  A  Drama  in 
MilsUji  came  to  be  revised  and  even  its  title  reduced  to 
Muslin,  our  author  did  not  pursue  his  characters  with  a 
theory,  but  was  content  with  a  touch  here,  a  pruning 
there,  and  that  general  stealthy  amendment  which  gives 
to  his  first  books  something  of  the  beauty  of  the 
later. 

Considering,  however,  the  1886  volume  as  it  stands,  and 
especially  as  a  step  in  the  development  of  an  artist,  A 
Drama  in  Muslin  has  a  very  definite  value.  Its  position 
between  A  Mummer  s  Wife  on  the  one  hand,  and  Spring  Days 
and  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  on  the  other,  is  witness  to 
the  zeal  with  which  Moore  tested  his  powers,  and  the  bold 
deliberateness  with  which  he  pursued  his  aim  of  becoming 
an  English  novelist  of  the  better  sort.  When  he  sat 
writing  it  in  the  Shelburne  Hotel,  Dublin,  looked  out  on 
St.  Stephen's  Green,   and   dressed    his  reflection  in   the 


88 

mirrors  of  Dublin  Castle^  I  doubt  whether  he  regarded  it  as 
the  exposition  of  the  personal  conscience  stirring  against 
the  communal  (another  of  his  comments  upon  Alice 
Barton's  story),  and  I  am  sure  it  would  have  lost  much  of 
its  excellence  if  he  had.  No,  it  was  his  intense  curiosity, 
his  thirst  for  a  story  growing  as  he  passed  and  repassed 
the  mirrors,  that  taught  him  the  spell  whereby  Alice 
Barton  and  her  mother  and  Lord  Dungory  and  Violet  and 
Kilcarney  were  called  to  the  surface  again,  and  held  there 
in  almost  unwavering  distinctness  until  their  eager  artist 
had  finished  with  them.  If  now  he  is  tempted  to  rationalize 
his  imaginative  glimpses,  it  is  because  he  is  older,  and 
prone  to  look  with  a  very  imperfect  sympathy  upon  a 
work  which  was  schemed  in  a  mood  so  different  from  the 
mood  of  the  retrospective  critic.  It  is  remarkable  that 
he  should  be  so  willing  now  to  spoil  the  impression  of  an 
imaginative  story  with  a  thesis,  and  so  ill-content  to  let 
the  story  preach  whatever  moral  it  will ;  for  this  is  the 
self-consciousness  not  of  the  artist,  but  of  the  theorist  with 
a  notion  which  needs  must  lessen  the  proper  influence  of 
the  novel  as  a  piece  ot  life. 

But  in  1886  the  social  theorist  lay  almost  silent,  and  the 
life  that  swirled  and  broke  around  the  Shelburne  was  his 
engrossing  concern ;  and  in  particular  Alice  Barton  and 
Violet  and  May  and  Olive,  puppets  of  the  social  drama 
and  living  persons  of  Moore's  book,  scarcely  secondary 
being  Mrs.  Barton  and  her  attendants.  Occasionally  the 
artist  sleeps  and  the  theorist  wakes,  and  acute  extraneous 
pages  are  pressed  violently  into  the  narrative  ;  an  intrusion 
so  simple  and  crude  that  it  belongs  to  satire  of  a  primitive 
kind,  resulting  from  an  artist's  irritability  rather  than 
from  the  impatience  of  a  sociologist.  The  author  has 
become  expansive,  spending  his  strength  vainly  upon  a 
voluptuous  description  of  a  Viceregal  drawing-room,  as 
though  he  would  fain  be  Balzacian  by  mere  excess ;  but 
the  simplicity  of  his  story  is  never  lost,  and  it  ends  as 


89 

quietly  and  primly  as  it  begins.  Less  significant  as  a 
novel  than  A  Mummer  s  Wife,  its  place  in  the  Moore  canon 
is  secure,  for  it  shows  him  for  the  first  and  almost  the  last 
time  as  the  author  of  the  domestic  novel  which  so  many 
hands  have  attempted,  and  which  is  usually  as  tedious  as 
The  Newcomes  and  as  unlovely  as  that  other  masterpiece 
of  the  commonplace.  Vanity  Fair.  Its  title  to  a  place  in 
the  canon  is  confirmed  by  the  revised  version,  in  which 
the  proof  of  the  value  of  pure  literary  instinct  at  work  upon 
something  substantial  but  faulty  may  readily  be  found.  In 
1886  George  Moore  could  not  refrain  from  a  sharp  piece 
of  satirical  realism  in  describing  'the  moral  ideas  of 
Dublin  in  1882.' — A  land  of  echoes  and  shadows,  he 
exclaims ;  the  young  and  the  old,  running  hither  and 
thither,  curse  the  Pope  for  not  helping  them  in  their 
affliction.  The  pages  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  1915 
version.  In  1886,  Cecilia,  the  unhappy  celibate,  assails 
Alice  Barton  with  morbid  lauds  and  laments  concerning 
mystical  religion,  the  depravity  of  the  human  heart 
and  the  nature  of  Jesus,  which  it  was  undesirable  or 
unnecessary  to  repeat  in  1915,  and  which  in  the  earlier 
version  are  followed  by  physiological  speculations  no  more 
necessary  thirty  years  later.  On  the  other  hand,  his 
immature  reflections  upon  man's  modern  attitude  towards 
women  are  reprinted  by  the  older  novelist ;  but  there  is  a 
significant  change  in  a  concluding  scene — I  refer  to  that 
in  which  Alice  Barton  and  her  husband,  touched  to  tears 
by  the  aspect  of  an  eviction,  restore  the  ragged  outcasts 
by  paying  the  due  rent;  but  in  1915  Alice's  mind  has 
grown  subtle — '  she  wished  her  departure  to  be  associated 
with  an  act  of  kindness,'  which  is,  she  fears,  another  form 
of  selfishness ;  and  her  husband,  consoling  her  for  not 
being  able  to  pay  the  rent,  adds,  '  Nothing  lasts  in 
Ireland  but  the  priests.  And  now  let  us  forget  Ireland,  as 
many  have  done  before  us.'  It  is  not  simply  Alice's  mind 
that   is   subtilized,  the   author's   too    has  changed  ;   and 


90 

there  has  come  into  it  a  hatred  of  the  picturesque  attitude 
which  it  needed  small  prescience  to  forecast  as  a  piece  of 
his  natural  development. 

Controversy  has  played  a  far  from  insignificant  part  in 
the  life  of  George  Moore,  and  the  publication  of  A  Modern 
Lover  gave  him  an  admirable  opening  for  his  pugnacity. 
The  beginnings  of  the  campaign  are  recorded  in  Literature 
at  Nurse  J  or  Circulating  Morals,  a  pamphlet  issued  in  1885, 
in  which  he  asserts  rather  than  explains  the  position  of 
the  artist.  A  Modern  Lover  had  met,  he  says,  with  the 
approval  of  the  entire  press  (pray  reflect  before  you 
ejaculate ;  it  was  published  in  1883),  but  Mudie's  declined 
to  circulate  it,  alleging  that  two  ladies  had  written  dis- 
approvingly. Moore  was  irritated  into  deciding  (against 
the  entreaty  of  Mr.  Mudie)  to  publish  his  next  book  at  a 
humble  six  shillings ;  and  no  one  will  be  surprised  that  A 
Mummer  s  Wife  should  have  been  yet  more  warmly  and 
assuredly  more  wisely  welcomed.  But  again  the  libraries 
objected,  and  Moore's  pamphlet  cites  at  length  the  harm- 
less passage  which  gained  the  book's  refusal  as  an  immoral 
publication.  Readers  who  possess  the  first  edition  of  A 
Mummer  s  Wife  may  judge  for  themselves  whether  this 
most  sombre  of  conventional  sermons  might  have  a 
seductive  effect  upon  pliable  spirits  ;  the  pages  denounced 
being  those  in  which  Kate  Ede  is  sent  down  to  open  the 
door  to  her  lodger  and  is  kissed  by  him.  The  charge  was 
so  foolish  that  it  hardly  deserved  a  pamphlet,  but  the 
injustice  was  rank  and  the  possible  injury  serious.  Moore's 
answer  was  characteristic  and  amusing.  He  took  three 
novels  which  had  not  been  refused  by  the  libraries, 
summarized  their  plots,  and  quoted  a  questionable  scene 
from  each,  crying, '  Look  on  this  picture,  and  on  this ! '  The 
method  is  elementary  but  effective,  although  the  unhappy 
novels  chosen  for  this  essay  in  comparative  damnation 
were  unworthily  obscure — Nadine,  by  Mrs.  Campbell  Praed, 


91 

Foxglove  Manor  J  by  Robert  Buchanan,  and  A  Romance  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  by  Mr.  W.  H.  Mallock. 

Much  more  stimulating,  however,  is  our  novelist's 
announcement  of  his  personal  attitude,  expressed  with  a 
touch  of  juvenile  petulance  which  we  can  very  well  under- 
stand. '  To  speak  candidly,  I  hate  you  ;  and  I  love  and 
am  proud  of  my  hate  of  you.  It  is  the  best  thing  about 
me.  I  hate  you  because  you  dare  question  the  sacred 
right  of  the  artist  to  obey  the  impulses  of  his  tempera- 
ment .  .  .  because  you  feel  not  the  spirit  of  scientific 
inquiry  that  is  bearing  our  age  along.'  It  was  to  Mr. 
Mudie  that  this  outburst  was  addressed,  and  if  Mr.  Mudie 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  asked  whether  A  Modem  Lover  and  A 
Mummer  s  Wife  exemplify  or  promote  the  spirit  of  scientific 
inquiry,  the  question  and  its  answer  went  unrecorded. 
Little  enough  has  the  later  George  Moore  to  do  with 
scientific  inquiry,  and  it  is  strange  that  the  earlier  writer 
should  not  have  been  content  to  rest  his  case  solely  upon 
the  ample  rights  of  the  imaginative  artist.  In  another 
passage  he  is  still  a  little  ambiguous  and  ill-content  to 
stand  upon  that  sole  unanswerable  contention  : — '  I  would 
not  have  it  supposed  that  I  am  of  opinion  that  literature 
can  be  glorified  in  the  temple  of  Venus.  .  .  .  The  middle 
course  is  to  write  as  grown-up  men  and  women  of  life's 
passions  and  duties.'  The  middle  course — yes,  but  it  is 
too  exact  a  definition  of  the  naturalistic  novel  to  please  the 
novel  reader  in  1922;  yet  might  not  1922  welcome  a 
naturalistic  novel  even,  to  cleanse  the  foul  bosom  of  much 
perilous  stuff  .^ 

Literature  at  Nurse  is  merely  the  earliest  of  those 
challenges  to  the  stupid  which  George  Moore  has  always 
rejoiced  in  uttering.  Whatever  dignity  he  presents  to  our 
view — and  it  is  almost  solely  the  dignity  of  an  artist's 
achievement — he  has  never  cared  to  assume  that  of  suffer- 
ing fools  gladly ;  perhaps  because  it  is  an  attitude  which 
the  fool  himself  can  so  easily  feign. 


It  is  tempting  to  regard  all  the  earlier  novels  as  a 
preparation  for  Esther  Waters,  but  that  is  a  fallacy  which  I 
refuse  to  share.  True  that  Moore's  growing  experience 
did  not  yield  its  full  value  until  Esther  Waters  was  written, 
but  ^  Mummer  s  Wife  and  A  Drama  in  Muslin  stand  quite 
easily  by  themselves,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  Spring  Days 
also  is  not  an  independent  witness  of  our  author's  zealous 
invention.  It  is  as  clearly  an  experiment  as  any  of  the 
early  novels,  and  indeed  in  that  circumstance  consists 
most  of  the  attraction  which  it  exerts  ;  an  attraction  less 
than  profound,  yet  not  too  vague  to  be  noted.  The 
preface  to  the  original  edition  reminds  the  reader  that  a 
companion  book  to  A  Drama  in  Muslin  had  been  promised, 
a  book  dealing  with  young  men  and  blotting  out  young 
women,  or  rather  using  young  women  merely  for  a 
decorative  background.  That  book  was  to  be  called  Don 
Juan,  and  Spring  Days  is  the  prelude  to  it  and  all  that  we 
have  of  Moore's  Don  Juan.  'Oi  this  idea  of  man,  so 
complete  and  so  full  of  subtle  psychological  interest,  the 
dramatist,  the  librettist,  and  the  poet  have  given  us  only 
a  pretty  boy  with  whom  numerous  women  fall  in  love ' — 
a  Lewis  Seymour,  in  fact.  Shall  we  regret  that  Moore 
changed  his  mind }  His  strength  is  not  in  his  '  Idea  * 
but  in  his  story,  as  we  are  so  constantly  remembering ; 
his  first  essay  in  the  incarnation  of  the  idea  of  Don 
Juan  was — what  we  have  seen ;  and  this  prelude  to  the 
unattempted  second  essay  does  not  tease  us  with  any 
sweet  dream-apples  of  delight. 

Spring  Days  is  born  of  that  prolonged  visit  to  Sussex  of 
which  Moore  has  spoken  in  Hail  and  Farewell ;  it  is  cast 
in  the  midst  of  the  same  scenery  as  you  glance  at  in 
Esther  Waters.  But  Spring  Days  is  far  too  arid  a  book 
to  give  the  reader  any  pleasant  prospect  of  the  downs ;  it 
is  filled  with  an  unkind,  shadowless  light  and  the  harsh 
voices  of  sex-conscious  girls.  If  Moore  had  felt  constrained 
to  display  middle-class  vulgarity  and  futility  in  a  single 


93 

complete  reflection,  so  that  vulgarity  and  futility  might 
behold  the  reflection  and  perish,  some  such  novel  with  a 
purpose  might  have  resulted ;  but  I  cannot  attribute  that 
passion  to  him,  and  must  concede  that  he  makes  this  experi- 
ment because  he  was  amused  at  the  setting.  It  was 
originally  published  in  the  year  of  Confessions  of  a  Young 
Man,  and  in  the  preface  to  the  new  edition  the  author 
records  how  he  was  induced  to  republish  it  after  twenty- 
five  years  of  oblivion.  Certain  friends  had  liked  it,  and  on 
re-reading  the  forgotten  pages  he  found  a  zest  which 
helped  to  explain  the  tenacity  with  which  the  book  had 
clung  to  existence. 

Arid,  I  have  called  it,  but  something  more  should 
have  been  said.  It  is  a  book  of  confused  purposes  and 
impressions,  and  only  one  clear  impression  survives  the 
confusion — an  impression  of  twilight  vanity.  A  doleful 
comedy,  you  may  say,  as  you  hurry  to  the  last  page  with 
a  sigh,  finding  whatever  is  sad  a  little  ridiculous,  and 
whatever  is  constant  pathetic.  Simplicity  and  tenderness 
unite  in  a  single  page  or  so  which  I  must  quote  for  its 
immense  relief  of  the  harshness  of  the  whole,  remarking 
also  that  it  unstops  a  minor  music  not  heard  hitherto 
under  the  restless  fingering  of  our  artist : — 

'  1  knew  my  passion  was  hopeless,  but  I  couldn't 
resist  it.  Had  I  known  her  I  might  have  won  her, 
but  there  were  no  means ;  I  never  saw  her  but  once 
off*  the  stage,  and  that  was  but  a  moment.  I  often 
sent  her  presents,  sometimes  jewellery,  sometimes 
fans  or  flowers,  anything  and  everything  I  thought 
she  would  like.  I  sent  her  a  beautiful  locket ;  I  paid 
fifty  pounds  for  it. 

Did  she  accept  your  presents  ? 

I  sent  them  anonymously. 

Why  did  not  you  try  to  make  her  acquaintance  ? 

I  knew  nobody  in  the  theatrical  world.  I  was  not 
good  at  making  acquaintances.  You  might  have  done 
it.     I  am  a  timid  man. 


94 

Did  you  make  no  attempt?  You  might  have 
written. 

At  last  I  did  write. 

What  did  you  write  ? 

I  tried  to  tell  her  the  exact  truth.  I  told  her  that 
I  had  refrained  from  writing  to  her  for  three  years. 
That  I  quite  understood  the  folly  and  presumption 
of  the  effort ;  but  I  felt  now,  as  drowning  men  that 
clutch  at  straws^  that  I  must  make  my  condition 
known  to  her.  I  told  her  I  loved  her  truly  and 
honourably,  that  my  position  and  fortune  would 
have  entitled  me  to  aspire  to  her  hand  if  fate  had 
been  kind  enough  to  allow  me  to  know  her.  It  was 
a  difficult  letter  to  write.' 

When  Spring  Days  was  re-issued  the  sufficiency  of  this 
recital  was  admitted  by  the  author,  who  left  it  untouched, 
but  the  succeeding  paragraphs  of  the  original  edition  were 
wisely  changed.  The  earlier  novelist  had  indulged  in  one 
of  those  undramatic  asides  of  which  Thackeray  had  given 
him  innumerable  and  worthless  examples ;  an  aside 
ending:  'And  then  those  letters — the  one  saving  sign 
of  soul  in  the  man — that  they  should  have  perished,  when 
the  thousands  of  vain  expenses  and  sterile  records  of 
ineffectual  calculations  stood  bound  and  numbered  in  so 
many  volumes.'  It  is  omitted  by  the  mature  writer. 
Generally  the  novel  has  been  only  slightly  revised,  but  a 
comparison  of  the  fourteenth  chapter  in  the  two  editions 
emphasizes  for  the  millionth  time  the  necessity  of  taking 
pains.  Moore  has  never  been  a  careless  writer,  but  if  you 
assume  that  he  did  his  best  with  a  poor  subject  in  1888 — 
a  subject  yielding  savour  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal 
sick — you  may  reckon  the  leap  of  his  ability  when  you 
turn  to  the  revisions.  True  enough,  as  he  says,  there's 
no  more  moral  in  Spring  Days  than  in  Daphnis  and  Ckloe, 
but  that  is  a  negative  virtue.  Most  of  the  characters  jerk 
and  drop  in  a  vacuum,  and  are  seen  in  such  a  distinct,  cold 
light   that   their  motions  seem  unimpulsive  and  without 


95 

significance;  Willy  alone  is  saved  by  his  fidelity  and 
failure,  and  remains  to  justify  the  title  Spring  Days  if  you 
remember  that  in  spring  an  east  wind  will  blow  and  shrivel 
many  a  flowering  branch.  It  was  an  experiment,  and  the 
aridity  so  sedulously  achieved  was  not  to  be  repeated. 
Skill  was  gained,  and  Esther  Waters  was  to  show  more 
clearly  the  advantage  of  subordinating  parts  to  a  whole  ; 
yet  Spring  Days  is  more  than  a  mere  precursor,  if  less  to 
us  than  it  seemed  to  its  author  on  re-reading. 

The  preferences  of  authors  are  usually  engaging  enough 
when  contrasted  with  one's  own,  and  I  confess  that  I 
cannot  follow  the  fancies  of  George  Moore's  mind  when 
he  speaks  of  discarding  Vain  Fortune,  or  relegating  it  to 
his  dusty  apocrypha,  while  nevertheless  retaining  a  favour 
for  Celibates.  The  bibliography  of  our  author  is  itself 
significant  of  the  mental  processes,  and  in  particular  the 
jealousy  with  which  he  regards  his  work;  Vain  Fortune, 
for  example,  having  been  twice  revised  by  this  victim  of 
the  disease  of  re-writing.  In  1895  he  did  not  disdain  it, 
and  regarded  it  as  being  far  from  his  worst  novel,  but  in 
1921  he  has  rather  inexplicably  frowned  upon  it.  Most 
properly  might  the  revised  text  have  been  included  in 
Celibates  when  that  collection  of  stories  was  published 
in  1895. 

It  is  a  mere  episode  in  treatment,  a  short  story  in 
essence,  and,  like  Spring  Days,  communicates  an  impression 
of  futility;  enriching  that  impression,  however,  with  a 
sense  of  tragedy  far  graver  than  any  earlier  book  save 
A  Mummer  s  Wife  unfolds.  A  reminder  of  another  novel, 
A  Drama  iti  Muslin,  is  conveyed  by  the  imaginative 
apprehension  of  a  young  girl's  mind,  in  its  isolation  and 
mania ;  and  it  is  a  reminder  the  more  welcome  inasmuch 
as  it  thrusts  the  commonness  of  Lewis  Seymour  and  Evelyn 
Innes  yet  farther  into  the  dark  of  the  mind.  It  is  difficult 
to  imagine  a  purely   pathological  study  being   executed 


96 

with  more  tenderness  than  is  used  in  the  study  of  Emily 
Watson ;  and  it  is  no  less  difficult  to  believe  that  Evelyn 
Innes  and  Emily  Watson,  or  Lady  Helen  Granderville 
and  Emily  Watson,  are  the  work  of  the  same  hand. 
Emily  is  the  natural  foil  to  the  celibates  of  the  book  so 
entitled;  she  told  her  love,  jealousy  was  cruel  as  the 
grave,  and  her  story  yields  a  glimpse  into  the  deeps  of 
our  poor  human  nature  over  which  custom  and  shame 
have  drawn  a  flimsy  shroud.  Well  might  a  suspicious 
reader  gasp  in  anticipation  of  offence  in  such  a  situation, 
and  there  are  many  novelists  who  would  not  disappoint  the 
sorest  anticipation ;  but  the  restraint  of  Fain  Fortune  is 
the  restraint  of  an  artist  who  cares  more  for  his  art — that 
is,  for  his  story — than  for  the  pleasure  of  shocking.  It  is 
a  restraint  which  I  am  bound  in  candour  to  emphasize,  for 
the  lapses  from  it  in  other  books  are  yet  to  be  deplored. 

I  said  it  might  have  found  a  place  in  Celibates,  mean- 
ing that  it  is  the  exact  counterpart  of  stories  in  that 
volume ;  for  it  has  this  in  common  with  them — that  it  is 
written  in  illustration  of  a  theme,  or  selected  as  a  type 
in  the  true  spirit  of  a  new  comedie  humaine.  There  is  no 
reason  why  a  good  novel  should  not  be  written  in  this 
way,  but  it  is  not  a  way  which  is  littered  with  success. 
Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  presents  a  pure  woman,  but  if 
you  admire  the  book  more  than  George  Moore  does,  it  is 
not  because  it  faithfully  presents  a  pure  woman,  but  because 
it  presents  Tess ;  the  novel,  in  fact,  gaining  nothing  from 
the  faint  suggestion  that  it  presents  a  type.  In  the 
scheme  of  Celibates  the  suggestion  of  presenting  types 
is  more  definite,  but  no  more  valuable.  It  is  superfluous 
to  point  out  that  the  adoption  of  a  type  involves  a  purpose 
beyond  the  purely  creative  purpose  of  the  novelist.  He 
may,  if  he  please,  offer  us  a  type  of  a  sot,  or  a  swindler,  or 
coward,  politician,  zany,  boor,  but  he  will  scarcely  interest 
us  if  he  gives  lis  merely  a  type ;  and  it  is  not  wholly 
absurd  to  insist  on  the  simple  truth  that  it  is  the  task  of 


97 

an  imaginative  artist  to  create  imaginatively,  not  intellectu- 
ally, and  to  breathe  into  his  characters  an  independent 
life  as  wanton  and  self-sufficient  as  his  own. 

It  is  the  defect  of  Celibates  that  the  stories  in  the  book 
illustrate  a  theme ;  they  are  written  upon  the  idea  of 
celibacy,  and  every  character  is  bitted  and  saddled  alike. 
You  cannot  wholly  escape  the  notion  that  the  stories  are 
intended  to  prove  something,  and  even  if  you  are  willing 
to  accept  the  proofs,  you  are  apt — such  is  the  natural 
wryness  of  the  mind — to  resent  their  interpolation  in  what 
should  be  an  imaginative  work.  ^  Mildred  Lawson,'  for 
instance,  the  first  of  these  little  novels,  begins  excellently 
and  runs  naturally  until  the  first  lover  of  this  celibate  dies  ; 
and  there  the  story  might  have  ended,  perhaps  a  little 
subtly,  but  surely  a  sufficient  ending.  Instead,  it  begins 
over  again  and  begins  differently,  as  though  to  bring  a 
fresh  piece  of  evidence  to  the  argument ;  and  the  delicacy 
of  the  earlier  impression  is  ruined.  ...  I  know  it  is 
egregious  to  deprive  a  novelist  of  his  right  to  his  own 
story,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  Moore  has  robbed  us 
of  our  rights  in  his  characters ;  the  rights,  I  mean,  that 
a  reader  may  properly  assert  in  characters  which  he  is 
invited  to  endenizen  in  some  close  corner  of  his  brain. 
The  dictation  of  a  formula  is  felt  even  in  the  first  chapter, 
where  Mildred  too  artlessly  unfolds  her  antecedents  in  a 
meditation  of  loneliness ;  you  are  given  a  summary  of 
relevant  facts  as  coldly  and  as  formally  as  might  be  in 
the  Probate,  Divorce  and  Admiralty  Division.  Again,  in 
tempting  a  second  lover  she  becomes  psychologically 
inconsistent  with  the  Mildred  of  the  first  part,  and  is 
merely  a  ludicrous  liar,  the  texture  of  the  story  being 
grossly  coarsened  for  the  sake  of  the  argument.  And 
again  the  reader  demurs. 

An  escape  from  the  domination  of  the  theme  is  hardly 
achieved  until  the  third  story,  ^  Agnes  Lahens,'  is  reached  ; 
for  this  is  no  simple  illustration  of  an  argument,  but  a 


98 

queer,  painful  episode  of  a  genuine  existence,  an  anticipa- 
tion of  Tchehov.  The  argument  is  subdued  to  the  charac- 
ters, and  hence  the  interest  is  no  longer  extrinsic.  It  may 
be  admitted  that  the  vileness  of  the  Lahens  circle  is  as  pro- 
found as  need  be,  but  it  cannot  be  thought  incredible  ;  nor 
can  the  attitude  of  the  child's  father  be  thought  incredible 
in  its  pitiful  protest  against  the  foulness  of  his  wife's 
iridescence.  '  One  day  I  was  told  that  as  I  paid  for  nothing 
I  had  no  right  to  grumble.  Your  mother  said,  in  reply  to 
some  question  about  me,  that  I  was  merely  an  expense.  I 
believe  the  phrase  was  considered  very  clever,  it  went 
the  round  of  society,  and  eventually  was  put  into  a  play. 
And  that  is  why  I  told  you  that  money  is  everything,  that 
it  is  difficult  to  be  truthful,  honourable,  or  respectable  if 
you  have  no  money ;  a  little  will  do,  but  you  must  have 
a  little,  if  you  haven't  you  aren't  respectable,  you're 
nothing,  you  become  a  mere  expense.  .  .  .  I've  borne  it 
for  your  sake,  dearest.'  You  may  read  the  whole  of  the 
few  pages  of  this  little  novel  without  suspecting  that  an 
argument  has  ever  entered  the  author's  head,  for  Agnes 
and  her  father  are  not  types  but  individual  beings. 

Between  these  two  stories  there  stands  ^  John  Norton,' 
a  study  in  that  religious  sensualism  which  Moore  himself 
has  called  elsewhere  terrible.  Condensation  has  made  it 
easier  to  read  but  harder  to  appreciate,  for  in  the  earlier 
version  (^  A  Mere  Accident '),  published  eight  years  before, 
you  were  not  asked  to  take  so  much  for  granted,  and 
could  test  a  little  more  accurately  the  weight  of  impulse 
and  circumstance.  But  now — '  the  story  will  of  course  be 
no  more  than  an  experimental  demonstration  of  the  work- 
ing of  the  brain  into  which  we  are  looking,'  Cumbrous 
phraseology,  you  will  remark,  and  the  experimental 
demonstration  in  itself  hardly  less  cumbrous  ;  the  working 
of  the  brain  being  manifested  not  only  to  the  eye  but  also 
to  the  ear  in  the  creaking  and  clanking  of  the  rudimentary 
machine,  which   in  this  story  performs  the  office  of  the 


99 

brain.  ...  It  loses  another  interest  by  the  mutilation  to 
which  it  has  been  subjected^  since  John  Norton's  early 
fondness  for  Marius  the  Epicureayi  and  pictures  by  Monet, 
Degas  and  Renoir  indicates  the  author's  tendency  to  write 
autobiographically  even  in  his  immaturest  work^  as  well  as 
in  his  ripest.  But  mutilated  as  it  is  in  Celibates,  it  yet 
holds  a  horror  of  its  own.  I  do  not  know  what  could  have 
possessed  Moore  to  write  this  story,  except  the  desire  to 
illustrate  his  types  of  celibacy  by  a  morbid  invention. 
Consciousness  of  failure  may  be  assumed,  I  fancy,  from 
the  abstention  from  another  experiment  of  this  kind,  for 
which  it  is  not  wholly  ungracious  to  offer  a  reader's 
thanks ;  although  that  consciousness  does  not  prevent 
his  pondering  a  third  version  of  the  story  nearly  thirty 
years  later,  and  staring  wistfully  at  the  obstinate 
stone. 

Between  Spring  Days  and  Celibates  there  was  published 
a  novel,  Mike  Fletcher,  for  which  you  must  search  the 
second-hand  book-shops  and  which  Moore  himself  dis- 
dains, including  it  with  certain  books  to  be  reprinted 
only  as  the  work  of  a  disciple — Amico  Moorino.  He  is 
not  the  only  author  who  has  mixed  singularly  good  with 
singularly  bad  books;  the  curious  may  be  referred  to 
Thomas  Hardy  for  another  puzzling  instance  of  the 
instability  of  genius  or  intelligence.  Between  Tess  of  the 
lyUrhervilles  and  Jude  the  Obscure  you  are  confronted  by 
so  immemorable  a  novel  as  J'he  Well-Beloved,  and,  more 
wonderful  yet,  between  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd 
and  The  Return  of  the  Native  you  are  perplexed  by  The 
Hand  of  Ethelberta.  In  Hardy's  case  this  strange  alterna- 
tion seems  to  be  due  to  a  sluggish  invention  yielding 
slowly  to  habits  of  industry,  but  in  Moore's  case  to  an 
eager,  fumbling  uncertainty  of  his  own  mind  and  strength. 
He  presses  hither  and  thither,  experimenting  and  failing, 
ardent  and  inconstant,  yet  maintaining  with  morose 
patience  his  resolve  to  become  a  man  of  letters.     He  falls 


100 

from  A  Drama  in  Muslin  to  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man, 
rises  a  little  to  Spring  Days  and  drops  again  like  a  be- 
wildered bird  down  to  the  half- familiar  depths  of  Mike 
Fletcher;  and  once  more  he  is  miraculously  ascendant 
with  Esther  Waters,  and  once  more  falls  with  Evelyn  Innes. 
To  follow  the  beating  of  his  wings  up  and  down  the  sky 
yields  the  excitement  of  the  incredible,  for  in  a  few  brief 
years  extremes  meet  and  inconsistency  alone  can  be 
counted  upon.  A  splendid  courage,  truly,  is  it  that 
enables  him  to  rise  to  Esther  Waters ;  a  pathetic  fallacy, 
surely,  that  weighs  him  down  with  Mike  Fletcher. 

The  fallacy,  or  the  lure,  is  the  strange  fondness  for 
the  corrupt  and  wanton,  for  Lewis  Seymour  and  Mike 
Fletcher,  for  Mildred  Lawson  and  Evelyn  Innes ;  and 
the  strain  of  wantonness  in  Moore's  intellectuality,  ex- 
pressed in  so  many  of  his  characters  and  opinions,  in 
dramatic  and  undramatic  utterances  alike,  responds  only 
too  punctually  to  the  stimulus  of  his  subject.  It  is  not 
a  mere  simple  fondness  for  shocking  the  easily  shocked, 
although  that  is  a  youthful  proneness  which  he  has  never 
wholly  outgrown ;  the  corrupt  mind  genuinely  interests 
him,  as  luxury  interests  him  in  Evelyn  Innes  and  poverty 
in  Esther  Waters.  All  these  engross  his  intellectual 
sympathies,  and  unless  the  reader,  too,  finds  corruption 
and  luxury  as  interesting  as  hate  and  love,  revenge  and 
despair — if  abstractions  may  be  seriously  discussed — the 
novelist's  repeated  choice  of  subject  and  character  may 
be  deplored.  There  is  no  interest  in  Mike  Fletcher's 
attempted  outrage  upon  the  conventual  Lily,  because 
there  is  none  in  Mike  himself,  and  Lily  is  but  a  foil  to 
his  coarseness ;  but  when  Richardson  deals  with  the  same 
subject,  and  gives  you  the  heart  of  Clarissa  and  the  mind 
of  Lovelace,  your  own  passionate  interest  is  engaged 
throughout  the  prodigious  reiteration  of  his  story.  Moore 
himself  has  taught  us  to  be  critical,  and  incident  qua 
incident  does  not  delight,  even  though  it  be  seduction. 


101 

nor  monologue  qua  monologue,  even  though  it  be  licen- 
tious. If  character  is  wanting,  then  story  is  wanting  and 
all  else  is  vain. 

But  this  is  to  anticipate  much  that  ought  to  be  said 
of  Evelyn  Lines,  and  meanwhile  there  is  something  else 
to  remark^  although  that  again  is  equally  noticeable  in 
Pamell  and  His  Island.  I  refer  to  our  author's  penurious 
trick  of  using  familiar  material  over  and  over  again. 
Fletcher,  for  example,  returning  to  Dublin  and  after 
prolonged  absence  calling  on  his  father,  finds  him  flute- 
playing  :  '  Oh,  is  that  you,  Mike } — sit  down,'  is  the 
nonchalant  salutation  that  greets  him.  The  incident  is 
treasured  up  and  used  again  (of  Marshall)  in  Vale.  Again, 
Frank  Escott  reappears  from  Spnng  Days,  no  longer  the 
careless  youth  but  the  editor  of  an  impecunious  review  ; 
and  Lizzie  Baker,  shedding  the  virtue  which  dimly  dis- 
tinguished her  in  the  earlier  book,  is  at  length  become 
his  mistress.  And  Harding,  the  eternal  cynic,  the  literary 
^^gy  of  Vain  Fortune  and  A  Modern  Lover  and  I  know 
not  how  many  other  books,  here  again  seeks  to  display 
his  damp  squibs.  Another  small  significant  circumstance 
is  Fletcher's  meditation  upon  a  trilogy  on  the  life  of 
Christ,  a  subject  to  be  left  for  the  maturer  mind  of  our 
author  himself  The  influence  of  Balzac  is  still  strong; 
not  until  long,  long  after  Mike  Fletcher  did  it  yield  to  the 
influence  of  Turgenev,  when,  instead  of  Paris  in  London, 
you  were  confronted  with  microcosmic  Russia  in  Ireland, 
and  A  Sportsman  s  Sketches  begat  The  Untilled  Field. 

Perhaps  I  shall  betray  no  very  close  secret  in  saying  that 
in  1920  George  Moore  had  retreated  sufficiently  far  from 
the  mood  and  manner  of  1898  to  decide  that  Evelyn  Innes 
and  Sister  Teresa  should  be  shut  out  of  the  canon  of  his 
works.  His  reasons  for  saying  this  will  appear  now  and 
justify  him  amply.  They  are  simple  and  amount  to  this 
— that  both  before  and  after  writing  Evelyn  Innes  he  had 


102 

written  books  so  immeasurably  superior^  and  again  I  say 
in  mood  and  manner,  that  the  shabby  character  of  that 
unfortunate  work  is  rebuked  beyond  revival.  But  the 
wisdom  of  the  artist  is  often  thwarted  by  the  tenderness 
of  the  parent,  and  a  few  months  after  he  passed  judgment 
he  appealed  against  it,  saying,  in  the  preface  to  the 
revised  text  of  The  Lakcy  that  although  he  has  very  little 
admiration  for  Evelyn  Innes  and  Sister  Teresa^  the  writing 
of  them  has  been  useful  to  him,  for  had  he  not  written 
them  he  could  not  have  written  The  Lake  or  The  Brook 
Kerith.  Hence  it  seemed  ungrateful  to  refuse  two  of  his 
most  successful  books  a  place  in  the  canon,  merely 
because  they  did  not  correspond  with  his  aestheticism.  .  .  . 
On  such  points  the  author's  word  must  be  taken,  and 
though  it  is  hard  to  see  that  the  writing  of  Evelyn  Lines 
was  an  inevitable  prelude  to  the  writing  of  The  Brook 
Kerith,  I  cannot  question  the  assertion ;  all  that  can  be 
said,  speaking  still  aesthetically,  is  that  the  price  was 
great.  He  follows  the  assertion  with  one  of  his  many 
wise  dicta — A  writer's  aestheticism  is  his  all ;  he  cannot 
surrender  it,  for  his  art  is  dependent  upon  it.  Neither 
Moore  nor  any  other  artist  has  ever  spoken  more  clearly 
a  fundamental  truth ;  and  the  interest  of  any  study  and 
portrayal  of  our  subject  lies  in  the  determination  of  that 
aestheticism  and  the  author's  loyalty  to  it.  My  complaint 
is  that  the  aestheticism  out  of  which  Evelyn  Innes  was 
shaped  is  obscure  and  shallow ;  luckily  it  was  a  mere 
disorderly  quarterly  tenant  and  not  a  freeholder,  and 
when  it  was  cast  out  (never  was  such  an  emaciated 
spectral  being  of  ragged  silks,  coarse  scent  and  arthritic 
gait !)  a  better  spirit  entered  in  and  besomed  the  house. 
Moore  himself  cast  it  out,  and  I  am  only  sorry  that  he 
inclines  to  tenderness  in  saying  that  his  single  concession 
to  the  wandering  refugee  is  that  if,  when  he  is  gone,  an 
overwhelming  demand  for  Evelyn  Innes  and  Sister  Teresa 
should   arise,  they  must  be  reprinted  from  the  original 


103 

editions  but  offered  to  the  public  merely  as  apocrypha. 
I  wish  that  his  aestheticism  had  been  a  little  less 
imperious  when  he  made  this  concession. 

Between  Esther  Waters  and  Evelyn  Lines  there  was  an 
external  change  which  had  a  marked  effect  upon  the 
novelist.  Remarking  upon  the  good  achieved  by  Esther 
Watersj  he  adds  that  it  did  evil  to  him,  the  evil  that 
surrounded  him  when  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  saw  a  hand- 
some flat,  peopled  by  Manet  and  Monet  and  Berthe 
Morisot  with  spiritual  creatures.  The  flowered  carpet, 
the  pretty  furniture,  the  satisfactory  cook — all  represented 
evil ;  for  this  *  thoroughly  healthy  '  book  had  demoralized 
its  author.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  the  best  of  the 
earlier  books  should  have  been  the  most  successful  also, 
and  we  have  no  solid  ground  for  assuming  that  if  our 
author  had  lived  a  long  life  of  privation  he  would  have 
avoided  the  snare  of  Evelyn  Innes.  No  !  the  demoralization 
that  leaps  hugely  before  us  is  a  purely  aesthetic  demoraliza- 
tion, symbolized  almost  perfectly  in  the  contrast  of  the 
dominant  house  in  Esther  Waters,  the  simple,  busy  home 
of  the  Barfields  on  the  Sussex  Downs,  with  the  dominant 
house  of  Evelyn  Innes,  in  Park  Lane,  with  flashing  horses 
always  waiting  outside.  The  external  impression  of 
Evelyn  Innes  is  a  strange  one ;  few  novels  are  so  lavishly 
furnished,  so  luxuriously  upholstered.  There  is  a  story 
in  Salve  which  amusingly  illustrates  this : — 

'Apologizing  for  spoiling  the  story,  Sir  Thornley 
told  me  I  must  take  for  granted  the  racy  description 
of  two  workmen  who  had  come  to  Upper  Ely  Place 
to  mend  the  drains  in  front  of  my  house.  After 
having  dug  a  hole,  they  took  a  seat  at  either  end, 
and  sat  spitting  into  it  from  time  to  time  in  solemn 
silence,  until  at  last  one  said  to  the  other,  "  Do  you 
know  the  fellow  that  lives  in  the  house  forninst  us  } 
You  don't }  Well,  I'll  tell  you  who  he  is :  he's  the 
fellow  that  wrote  Evelyn  Innes."  '^And  who  was 
she  ? "    "  She  was  a  great  opera-singer.    And  the  story 


104 

is  all  about  the  ould  hat.  She  was  lying  on  a  crimson 
sofa  with  mother-of-pearl  legs  when  the  baronet  came 
into  the  room,  his  eyes  jumping  out  of  his  head  and 
he  as  hot  as  be  damned.  Without  as  much  as  a 
good-morrow,  he  jumped  down  on  his  knees  alongside 
of  her,  and  the  next  chapter  is  in  Italy."  ' 

Quotation  readily  shows  the  aesthetic  disintegration  so 
thinly  concealed,  and  if  the  style  appears  incredible  the 
task  of  proving  it  authentic  may  be  left  to  Moore  himself. 
Certainly  his  own  word  might  be  asked,  in  proof  that  this 
is  indeed  by  the  author  of  The  Lake,  written  not  long  after ; 
it  is  a  passage  describing  the  first  meeting  between  an 
innocent  and  devout  Catholic  girl  and  Sir  Owen  Asher, 
Bart.  :— 

'  Her  intense  consciousness  of  this  tall,  aristocratic 
man  frightened  her.  She  saw  the  embroidered  waist- 
coat, the  slight  hips,  the  gold  moustache,  and  the 
sparkling  grey  eyes  asked  her  questions  to  which  her 
whole  nature  violently  responded,  and  although  her 
feelings  were  inexplicable  to  herself,  she  was  overcome 
with  physical  shame.' 

The  second  meeting  repeats  the  impression  : — 

'  In  a  sort  of  dream,  through  a  sort  of  mist,  she  saw 
the  embroidered  waistcoat  and  the  gold  moustache, 
and  when  the  small,  grey,  smiling  eyes  were  raised 
from  her  father's  face  and  looked  at  her,  a  delicious 
sensation  penetrated  through  the  very  tissues  of  her 
flesh,  and  she  experienced  the  tremor  of  a  decisive 
moment ;  and  then  there  came  again  a  gentle  sense 
of  delicious  bewilderment  and  illusion.' 

Throughout,  the  story  is  the  same — their  sense  is  with 
their  senses  all  mixed  in.  Moore  dedicated  Evelyn  Iniies 
to  Mr.  Arthur  Symons  and  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats,  'Two  con- 
temporary writers  with  whom  I  am  in  sympathy ; '  and  I 
am  amused  to  note  the  parallel  currents  of  Moore's  and 
Mr.  Symons's  works.  For  Moore  is  a  prey  to  influences 
and   streams  of  tendency.     Moore  and  Mr.  Symons  have 


105 

been  fascinated  by  the  French,  one  mainly  by  Manet  and 
the  rest,  the  other  by  Mallarme  and  the  rest.  Each  has 
been  attracted  by  Baudelaire,  and  then  by  Verlaine,  but 
Moore  has  revolted  from  Baudelaire  instead  of  merely 
neglecting  him.  Each  has  been  subjugated  by  Pater, 
each  writes  carefully,  one  better  than  Pater,  the  other 
worse.  Evelyn  Innes  shows  Moore  wonderfully  concerning 
himself  with  Saint  Teresa  and  Crashaw ;  Mr.  Symons's 
poems  show  an  equally  remarkable  concern  with  Patmorean 
odes  and  St.  John  of  the  Cross. 

Intellectual  sympathies,  however,  are  sometimes  im- 
perfect and  sometimes  transient.  Evelyn  Innes  is  a  novel 
of  the  'nineties  rather  than  of  a  particular  author,  and, 
like  much  of  the  work  of  the  'nineties,  it  provides  a  sub- 
morality  for  the  use  of  those  who  care  to  note  it.  There 
are  pages  in  the  book  which  form  only  too  minatory  a 
sermon  upon  the  terrible  monotony  of  wantonness,  a 
monotony  not  broken  even  by  Evelyn's  hint  to  her 
confessor  of  unlimited  lasciviousness  beyond  the  moderate 
sexual  life  which  she  believed  was  maintained  between 
husband  and  wife.  Thankful  enough  are  we  to  the 
discreet  confessor  who  interrupted  the  luxury  of  this 
abasement  with,  '  You  have  said  enough  on  that  point ; ' 
although  his  interruption  was  only  half  effectual.  Evelyn, 
in  fact,  is  Moore's  chief  example  of  the  wanton,  the  ivy 
woman  whose  body  alone  thinks ;  her  weakness  as  a  type 
is  that  she  lives  in  his  book  not  for  herself  and  of  herself, 
but  to  assist  towards — what.''  The  first  English  novel  of 
passion ! 

It  is  by  a  sheer  fatality,  then,  that  for  counterpart 
to  Evelyn  he  falls  back  upon  Sir  Owen  Asher,  whose  grave 
occupation  was  the  seduction  of  his  friends'  wives  and  who 
is  introduced  to  you  with  a  remark  with  which  he  had 
embarrassed  his  reigning  mistress — '  Of  course  marriage  is 
necessary ;  you  can't  have  husbands  without  marriage,  and 
if  there  were   no  husbands,  who  would   look  after   our 


106 

mistresses  ? '  A  sheer  fatality  is  Owen  in  a  novel  of  passion, 
for  a  virgin  passion  is  wanted  and  Owen  is  impotent  for 
the  purpose.  Moore's  own  view,  again,  is  that  a  man 
with  ten  thousand  a  year  is  not  a  possible  subject  for  art ; 
and  although  I  do  not  admit  a  purely  arbitrary  limitation, 
I  cannot  forget  that  Owen  has  twenty  thousand  a  year; 
for  the  author  never  permits  that  to  be  forgotten.  An 
accomplished  seducer,  when  he  obtains  Evelyn  he  fears 
to  lose  her  as  he  has  lost  others,  dreading  most  of  all  the 
first  intimations  of  reviving  morality  or  religion ;  for  had 
he  not  found  that  when  a  wanton  begins  to  weary  of  her 
lover  she  preludes  her  sighs  for  another  by  obstinate 
questionings  about  morality  or  religion  ?  He  seeks,  there- 
fore, to  seduce  her  intelligence  in  order  to  command 
her  sense's  loyalty,  drenching  her  mind  with  Spencer, 
Darwin  and  Huxley ;  hence  the  book  itself  is  soaked 
with  an  attempted  philosophy  of  sensualism,  a  philosophy 
expressed  partly  by  Owen  and  partly  by  his  successor, 
Ulick  Dean — Dean  relying  upon  Blake  instead  of  Spencer 
for  his  success.  He  taught  her,  for  instance,  on  Blake's 
authority,  that  we  must  seek  to  exalt  ourselves,  to  live  in 
the  idea ;  and  though  sexual  passion  was  an  inferior  state, 
mean  content  was  the  true  degradation.  '  In  the  pauses 
of  their  love-making,  they  often  wandered  round  the  walls 
participating  in  the  mystery  of  the  Wanderers,  and  the 
sempiternal  loveliness  of  figures  who  stood  with  raised 
arms  by  the  streams  of  Paradise.  It  seemed  a  profanation 
to  turn  from  these  aspirations  to  the  enjoyment  of  material 
love,  and  Evelyn  looked  at  Ulick  questioningly.  But 
he  said  that  life  only  became  wrong  when  it  ceased  to 
aspire.'  .  .  .  Dean  gives  a  varnish  of  mysticism  to  the  hard 
surface  of  materialism  prepared  by  his  rival,  and  in  this 
aspect  the  book  is  a  modern  Harlot's  Progress.  Just  as 
Owen  had  swept  her  off  to  Paris  and  pleased  her  with 
the  fripperies  of  expensive  women's  shops  ('  Owen's  taste 
was  for  garters,  and  the  choice  of  a  pair  filled  them  with  a 


107 

pleasurable  embarrassment '),  so  Uliek  sweeps  her  out  of 
Owen's  power  and  teases  her  with  metaphysical  fripperies 
not  less  delightful. 

For  Evelyn  was  truly  ivy : — '  Obedience  is  a  divine 
sensualism  ;  it  is  the  sensualism  of  the  saints  ;  its  lassitudes 
are  animated  with  deep  pauses  and  thrills  of  love  and 
worship.'  ^  No  sensuality,'  says  Moore,  in  another  book, '  is 
so  terrible  as  religious  sensuality.'  Her  conversion  is 
but  an  introverted  sensualism,  springing  partly  from  the 
perplexities  which  naturally  abound  when  an  opera  singer 
has  committed  herself  to  two  lovers ;  and  her  own  account 
of  that  conversion  is  amusing  enough  when  she  says  in 
dismissing  Owen  :  '  We  have  only  a  certain  amount  of  force. 
A  certain  amount  goes  to  support  life,  and  the  rest  we 
may  expend  upon  a  lover,  or  upon  our  spiritual  life.' — A 
longer  passage  is  needed  to  illustrate  the  development  of 
the  wanton : — 

'  By  a  special  dispensation  from  the  Reverend 
Mother,  her  watch  before  the  sacrament  was  increased 
from  half  an  hour  to  an  hour ;  she  was  therefore  put 
on  an  equality  with  the  choir  nuns ;  and  kneeling 
before  the  sacrament  she  thought  of  God  as  intimately 
AS  she  dared,  excluding  all  thought  of  the  young 
Galilean  prophet  and  seer,  allowing  herself  to  think 
only  of  the  exquisite  doctrine.  She  did  not  wish 
Him  to  take  her  in  His  arms  until  one  day,  starting 
suddenly  from  her  prayers,  she  asked  who  it  was  who 
stood  before  her.  She  seemed  to  see  Him  among 
His  disciples,  sitting  at  a  small  table  with  a  love-light 
upon  His  face.  She  scrutinized  the  face,  fearing  it 
might  not  be  His.  She  seemed  to  have  seen  it. 
Presently  she  discovered  Ulick ;  and  tremblingly  she 
remembered  the  night  she  found  him  among  his 
disciples.  So  she  did  not  dare  to  think  of  Christ  any 
longer;  and  with  regret  and  tenderness,  and  yet 
with  a  certain  exaltation  of  spirit,  she  turned  to  the 
Father,  to  the  original  essence  which  had  existed 
before    the    world    needed    a    redeemer.     She    lost 


108 

herself  for  a  time  in  the  vast  spirit  which  hears  the 
song  of  Nature  through  space  and  the  ages.  But  very 
soon  she  turned  to  the  young  Galilean  prophet  again, 
and  His  exquisite  doctrine  seemed  to  her  to  be  all 
that  a  man  needs  to  bring  to  perfect  fruition  the 
original  germ  of  immortality  implanted  in  him.* 

Evelyn  Innes  is  not  a  novel  of  passion,  but  of  intellectual 
sensualism.  Culture  and  mammon  do  their  best  to  be 
exalted, passionate,  distraught;  they  remain  at  heart  elegant 
and  vulgar.  Moore's  interest  in  passion — and  clearly  he 
means  passion  as  the  French  see  it — is  an  intellectual 
interest ;  out  of  his  critical  contempt  for  the  narrow  range 
of  the  English  novel  he  has  projected  a  little  world  in 
which  passion  shall  spin  the  plot,  and  the  English  novel  at 
length  burst  the  straight  bonds  of  custom  and  prejudice. 
Once  again  Balzac  beckons  him  with  the  enormous  impro- 
visations of  his  comedie  humaine,  but  the  energy  of  Balzac 
is  wanting. 

Dogmatism  is  easy  and  foolish,  yet  I  cannot  help  saying 
that  in  attempting  his  novel  of  passion  in  English,  for  an 
English  audience,  Moore  was  heavily  handicapped.  The 
English  genius  is  distinguished  in  this  from  the  Latin 
genius,  that  its  attempts  in  this  kind  have  not  achieved 
success  but  have  wallowed  obscurely  in  dim  circles  far 
below,  shifting  furtively  between  vulgarity  and  stupidity. 
It  is  an  obvious  gibe  to  say  that  the  novel  of  passion  needs 
passion  for  its  success,  and  no  one  will  want  to  gibe  at 
Moore's  attempt  or  deny  that  passion  is  absent  from  it ; 
for  appetite  is  not  passion.  When  (in  Sister  Teresa) 
Evelyn  turns  from  opera  to  prayer,  it  is  not  a  revolt 
against  sin  but  a  simple  revulsion  of  the  tired  mind  and 
body ;  her  sense  and  not  her  soul  is  sick,  and  she  no  more 
sways  your  sympathies  as  a  convert  than  as  a  mere  wanton. 
She  foreshadows  quite  exactly  the  externality  of  Doris  and 
the  nameless  lover  of  Doris  in  'The  Lovers  of  Orelay.' 
The  merest  echo  of  passion  is  that  which  you  detect  in  the 


109 

lavish  and  unflagging  chapters  of  musical  experiences  and 
criticism  ;  at  the  name  of  Palestrina  Moore's  eye  brightens, 
at  the  name  of  Wagner  his  ears  tingle  and  he  bends  all 
his  powers  upon  the  communication  of  his  pleasure.  His 
own  enthusiasm  for  the  Rhinegold,  for  instance,  his  vivid 
memory  of  that  astonished  first  hearing,  hinted  at  rather 
than  described  in  Hail  ajid  Fareivell,  are  the  prompters  of 
the  prolonged  musical  disquisitions  in  Evelyn  Innes.  Not 
even  his  youthful  excitement  at  the  first  reading  of 
Shelley  exceeded  the  intensity  of  his  excitement  on  first 
hearing  Wagner ;  and  the  chapters  begotten  of  that 
fascination  are  at  any  rate  written  with  a  full  heart. 
Sensuality  exalted  into  something  so  high  and  fine  as 
to  have  become  almost  spiritual-minded — that  note  of 
music's  power  is  the  note  which  he  has  surely  touched 
in  this  novel;  for  it  was  first  touched  in  himself;  and 
he  writes  truly  only  that  which  he  writes  out  of  his 
own  heart. 

It  is,  again,  the  author  that  speaks  in  the  attitude 
towards  the  Catholic  Church.  The  sharp  resentment 
of  later  writings  is  not  traceable  here,  for  music  has 
softened  the  harshness  of  dogma  accepted  or  dogma 
opposed,  and  the  constraint  of  the  religious  life  is  never 
made  ridiculous.  I  cannot  imagine  the  thoughts  of  a 
Catholic  upon  the  conversion  of  our  operatic  Magdalene, 
nor  can  I  imagine  his  judgment  upon  her  egoism  when 
it  wears  the  religious  habit ;  but  I  can  easily  imagine 
Monsignor  Mostyn  pausing  before  he  again  cries  to  an 
errant  beauty.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery  !  You  are  asked  to 
believe  that  peace  comes  when  Evelyn  loses  her  voice, 
and  perhaps  a  symbol  is  here  of  the  spiritual  gain  from 
carnal  loss;  but  did  her  egoism  exist  only  in  her 
marvellous  voice  }  Alas,  not  so  easily  do  mortals  escape 
from  the  weakness  of  their  being;  and  if  our  author 
should  cast  upon  Evelyn  such  a  musing  regard  as  he 
gives  to  Violet   Scully's  future,  he  would  find  a  teasing 


110 

problem  for  his  fancy.  Probably  his  later  exasperation 
with  the  Catholic  Church,  and  in  particular  with  the 
priesthood,  would  tempt  him  anew  into  the  rich  per- 
versities recorded  in  Hail  and  Farewell,  and  in  the  pages 
dealing  with  his  sudden  discovery  of  an  antagonism 
between  Catholicism  and  literature.  But  such  an 
epilogue  would  make  the  story  even  less  a  novel  ot 
passion. 

'  I  sat  wondering/  says  the  author  of  Ave  in  speaking  of 
the  joy  which  a  reading  of  Esther  Waters  gave  him  some 
years  after  its  publication — '  I  sat  wondering  how  it  could 
have  happened  to  me  to  write  the  book  that  among  all 
books  I  should  have  cared  most  to  write,  and  to  have 
written  it  so  much  better  than  I  ever  dreamed  it  could 
be  written.' 

It  is  from  Esther  Waters  that  Moore  has  derived  the 
only  pleasure  which  his  books  have  given  him,  unless 
his  experience  since  Hail  and  Farewell  should  tempt  him 
to  qualify  that  statement  now  ;  and  he  speaks  frankly  of 
the  unhappiness  and  anxieties  that  his  writings  always 
cause  him — an  experience  common  to  creative  minds.  A 
harmless  joy  is  his  term  for  that  pleasure,  and  he  con- 
gratulates himself  somewhat  surprisingly  that  this  book, 
though  pure  of  all  intention  to  alleviate  suffering,  has 
perhaps  done  more  good  than  any  other  novel  written  in 
his  generation  ;  a  concession  to  popular  demands,  surely, 
which  George  Moore  would  ordinarily  be  loth  to  make, 
especially  since  it  may  be  freely  admitted.  The  goodness 
of  Esther  Waters  is  a  subject  which  we  may  contemplate 
now  without  reference  to  alien  standards,  and  all  that 
need  be  added  is  the  remark  that  the  moral  value  of  the 
book  was  not  originally  undisputed.  But  the  confusion 
of  art  with  morals  is  senseless,  if  almost  inevitable,  and 
certainly  has  no  use  here  except  as  an  indication  of  the 
commonplace  to  which  the  bright  mind  may  sink. 


Ill 

'  As  characteristically  English  as  Don  Quixote  is  Spanish,' 
cried  the  author  on  another  occasion,  referring  to  Esther 
Waters  ;  and  at  another  time  :  the  only  English  novel  that 
treated  a  servant-girl  seriously,  as  chief  person  of  the 
drama.  And  again,  it  was  the  Englishman  in  him  that 
wrote  the  book ;  and  yet  again,  was  it  likely  that  he  who 
had  written  the  most  English  of  all  novels  should  be  able 
to  describe  Ireland  ?  Could  he  write  at  all  except  about 
England,  and  in  leaving  England  and  his  inspiration  wasn't 
he  leaving  a  literary  career  behind  ? — More  precisely,  he 
remembers  that  the  book  was  written  in  the  Temple,  and 
again  the  recollection  pricks  him  with  the  notion  that  he 
would  have  written  better  if  he  had  stayed  there  ;  for  it 
was  in  the  Temple  that  his  poor  laundress  used  to  tell  him 
every  day  of  her  troubles,  and  through  her  he  became 
acquainted  with  the  life  of  poor  people,  and  spontaneous 
sympathy  and  kindness  grew.  How  mean  we  seem  when 
we  look  back  !  He  gave  her  five  pounds  when  he  left, 
and  with  a  candour  that  helps  to  redeem  the  coldness,  he 
confesses  to  having  forgotten  to  answer  the  laundress's 
son,  who  asked  him  to  help  her  in  old  age.  .  .  .  She 
did  not  inspire  the  subject  of  Esther  Waters,  it  appears, 
but  she  gave  the  atmosphere  required  for  the  book  ;  a 
talk  with  her  at  breakfast  being  an  excellent  preparation 
for  the  day's  writing. 

Esther  Waters,  then,  was  born  in  London,  the  fruit  of  an 
unequal  match.  It  is  hard  to  dispute  that  it  is  the  most 
English  of  all  novels  if  a  saving  clause,  since  Tom 
Jones  and  David  Copperjieklj  be  added.  A  single  sen- 
tence in  a  newspaper  gave  him  the  subject  of  Esther 
Waters— ^V^e  re  always  complaining  of  the  annoyance 
that  servants  occasion  us,  but  do  we  ever  think  of  the 
annoyance  we  occasion  servants  }  '  Pondering  upon  that 
as  he  stepped  out,  he  rejected  the  notion  of  a  young  lady 
in  love  with  her  footman  (a  mere  incident  in  the  story  as 
we   read  it  now),  and  imagined   a  girl,  a  kitchen-maid. 


112 

anxious  to  get  a  living.  He  thought  that  on  fourteen 
pounds  a  year  she  could  not  rear  her  illegitimate  child, 
but  needed  sixteen  pounds.  The  life  of  a  human  being 
valued  at  two  pounds  a  year  was  the  subject,  and  before 
he  had  passed  from  the  Temple  to  the  Law  Courts  the 
story  was  decided  upon.  It  is  a  story  in  which  character 
and  incident  are  balanced  and  interdependent ;  and  if  it 
has  an  excellence  beyond  our  insular  achievement  it  is  the 
excellence  of  form.  Pity  that  form  should  be  regarded 
so  often  as  negligible ;  but  Moore  at  any  rate  has  been 
admonished  that  creation  demands  form,  and  that  in  the 
medium  of  prose  the  presence  of  form  is  essential  even 
if  it  be  half  concealed — like  unwearing  rocks,  that  shape 
the  current  of  the  tide — and  showing  only  at  moments  of 
ebbing  inspiration.  The  evil  Victorian  tradition  of  the 
formless,  a  tradition  disastrously  honoured  in  Tennyson's 
In  Memoriam  and  Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair  and  Meredith's 
Diana  of  the  Crossways,  is  a  tradition  which  George  Moore 
has  been  among  the  first  to  disturb.  If  the  admonition 
came  from  France  or  Russia,  if  it  came  in  fact  from  his 
admired  Turgenev,  it  was  an  admonition  to  which  his 
whole  intelligence  responded  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
mirror  to  the  light.  His  earlier  novels  had  wanted  this 
care,  and  although  A  Mummer's  Wife,  for  example,  had 
a  beginning  and  an  end  (two  parts  of  the  obvious  want), 
it  lacked  the  continual  evidences  of  a  shaping  spirit  which 
are  to  be  detected  in  the  later  masterpiece.  And  if  it  be 
acknowledged  that  the  exact  repetition,  in  the  opening 
sentences  of  the  conclusion,  of  the  first  lines  of  the  first 
chapter,  forms  too  rigid  a  pattern,  it  is  the  largest  con- 
cession that  need  or  shall  be  made.  Esther  Waters  has  a 
beginning  and  an  end,  and  because  all  between  is  an  easy, 
harmonious  development,  flowing  like  water  to  a  stream 
or  like  branches  to  autumn  and  winter,  the  quiet  end  has 
the  beauty  of  music  and  clouds.  The  story  sinks  in  the 
west,  clouds   are   lit  and  dimmed,  and  while  a  laggard 


113 

blackbird  still  sings,  Esther  Waters,  her  son  and  her 
mistress  stand  clear  and  firm  in  the  twilight,  and  the 
shadows  of  departed  characters,  William  and  Randall  and 
Ketley  and  Sarah,  step  from  obscurity  and  resume  their 
places  beside  them.  The  close  of  the  book  is  a  luminous 
example  of  the  formalizing  effect  of  unity.  ...  I  have 
not  attempted  a  definition  of  form  in  relation  to  a  novel ; 
it  is  suggested  by  the  metaphors  just  used.  It  is  the 
result  of  the  co-operation  of  imagination  with  intelli- 
gence, of  imagination  working  upon  intelligence,  at  once 
sustained  and  strengthened  by  the  sober  counsels  and 
curbings  of  the  lower  power.  Put  it  more  simply,  and 
so  far  as  it  can  be  described  as  an  effect  rather  than  an 
influence,  it  is  the  result  of  the  artist's  complete  posses- 
sion by  a  definite  idea,  to  which  he  is  fain  to  give  the 
shape,  members  and  unity  of  a  natural  creation.  It  is  not 
easily  achieved,  nor  achieved  at  all  by  any  who  lacks  the 
passion  and  discipline  of  art. 

The  trunk  of  the  tree  is  Esther  herself.  That  it  was 
left  to  an  Irishman  to  create  this  typical  Englishwoman 
is  not  at  all  singular,  for  what  was  needed  was  neither 
Englishman  nor  Irishman  but  simply  a  man  of  genius  who 
should  be  capable,  as  Moore  candidly  avows,  of  holding 
the  mirror  steadily  up  to  a  particular  phase  of  '  nature.' 
This  attractive,  blunt-featured  Cockney  servant,  with  a 
religious  severity  imposed  upon  natural  honesty,  has  the 
literal  fidelity  of  a  photograph  and  the  warm  animation 
of  a  painting.  Could  Manet  have  repaid  Moore's  constant 
lauds  by  a  critical  appraisal  of  his  disciple's  work,  he 
would  have  found  his  sufficient  occasion  in  this  portrait. 
The  triumph  is  the  more  delightful  when  the  portrait 
is  contrasted  with  the  sketches  in  Mike  Fletcher  among 
the  earlier  and  Evelyn  Lines  among  later  novels.  The 
punctiliously  but  not  quite  perfectly  revised  text  of 
1920  (the  book  was  first  published  in  1894  and 
Moore's  growth  as  a  writer  of  English  prose  is  mainly 
I 


114 

twentieth-century)  gives  a  precise  impression  of  the 
physical  woman  in  the  description  with  which  the  book 
opens :  '  A  girl  of  twenty,  firmly  built  with  short,  strong 
arms  and  a  plump  neck  that  carried  a  well-turned  head 
with  dignity.  Her  well-formed  nostrils  redeemed  her 
somewhat  thick,  fleshy  nose,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
see  her  grave,  almost  sullen,  face  light  with  sunny 
humour ;  for  when  she  laughed  a  line  of  almond-shaped 
teeth  showed  between  red  lips.'  And  towards  the  close  of 
the  book,  when  the  too-cunning  or  too-simple  repetition 
of  the  first  movement  begins,  the  description  is  :  '  A  woman 
of  seven  or  eight  and  thirty,  stout  and  strongly  built,  short 
arms  and  hard-worked  hands,  dressed  in  dingy  black  skirt 
and  a  threadbare  jacket  too  thin  for  the  dampness  of  a 
November  day.  Her  face  was  a  blunt  outline,  and  the 
grey  eyes  reflected  all  the  natural  prose  of  the  Saxon.' 
But  the  truth  of  the  book  does  not  depend  upon  explicit 
but  rather  upon  implicit  things  ;  and  of  these  the  chief  is 
Esther's  own  regard  of  her  early  lapse.  A  girl  of  religious 
tradition  and  training,  she  is  not  appalled  by  her  betrayal  ; 
she  does  not  become  a  tragical  creature,  impressive  and 
grotesque,  or  a  type  of  woman's  weakness ;  she  is  conscious 
of  social  disgrace  without  raging  at  that  disgrace,  and  her 
native  religiousness  is  untouched.  The  temptation  to 
heroics  is  so  steadily  resisted  that  I  wonder  if  Moore  was 
tempted  at  all ;  rather  is  it  likely  that,  possessed  by  his 
theme,  not  one  of  a  million  devils  had  power  over  him 
— not  even  that  simian  devil  of  sensuality  who  comes  so 
quickly  if  Moore  but  whispers,  had  power  to  seduce  the 
artist  from  his  art.  Happy  are  those  whom  an  engrossing 
task  secures  against  temptation  ! 

One  objection  to  Esther  Waters  has  often  been  rehearsed 
— that  for  all  its  skill  and  verisimilitude,  it  fails  in  ani- 
mation and  heat,  being  written  from  without  and  not 
from  within,  coldly  and  not  fondly.  The  charge  is  some- 
what   vague,    and    the    vindication    can    be    little    less 


115 

vague,  if  more  strenuous.  I  think  it  is  the  presence 
of  form  in  a  rare  degree  that  suggests  coldness;  the 
uncommon  quality  being  assumed  to  exclude  a  common 
quality  quite  inevitably.  But  that  exclusion  is  far  from 
inevitable ;  it  is  merely  the  slackness  of  the  mind  that 
calls  violence  power,  and  restraint  coldness.  Argument 
of  this  kind,  however,  is  too  abstract  to  be  useful ;  turn 
rather  to  the  pages  in  which  Esther  watches  her  husband 
die.  It  is  conceivable  that  restraint  may  be  mistaken  for 
coldness,  but  if  it  is  my  business  to  distinguish,  I  do  not 
find  it  hard  to  distinguish  tenderness  there. 

Let  it  be  granted,  nevertheless,  that  passionate  heights 
and  deeps  are  not  touched  in  this  novel ;  but  let  it  also  be 
granted  that  they  are  not  within  its  aim.  The  naturalistic 
novel  moves  within  definite  limits,  and  it  has  not  the 
power  of  Ariel  to  fly  or  run  at  will.  Of  the  French 
naturalists  it  has  been  said  that  they  found  life  unpleasant 
and  left  it  hideous ;  but  the  excesses  of  reaction  are  a 
commonplace.  The  French  naturalists  reacted  against 
romance,  and  in  turn  the  symbolists  reacted  against  their 
predecessors.  Moore  is  the  most  eminent  of  those  who 
have  sought  to  transplant  or  maintain  the  naturalistic 
formula,  but  I  have  already  called  attention  to  his 
apostasy  from  the  ardours  of  Zola.  In  another  book  he 
has  said  that  a  man  may  write  twenty  volumes  of  poetry, 
history  and  philosophy,  but  a  man  will  never  be  born  who 
will  write  more  than  two,  at  the  most  three,  naturalistic 
novels ;  the  naturalistic  novel  being  the  essence  of  a  phase 
of  life  that  the  writer  has  lived  in  and  assimilated.  .  .  . 
Esther  Waters  was  clearly  conceived  in  that  tradition,  and 
it  happened  that  the  tradition,  lightly  observed  and 
sparingly  infringed,  offered  the  ideal  opportunity  for  a 
faithfully  English  novel.  Written  in  another  tradition, 
it  might  have  gained  a  romantic  attraction  and  lost  in 
fidelity.  Yet  it  differs  utterly  from  Celibates,  in  that  its 
restrictions  relate  to  form  and  not  to  idea.     Celibates,  I 


116 

have  said,  is  spoiled  by  the  domination  of  a  theme ;  the 
theme  of  Esther  Waters  is  enhanced  by  the  observance  of 
form. 

Esther  Waters  has  a  special  interest  for  its  author,  since 
it  shared  the  fate  of  A  Modern  Lover  and  A  Mummers 
Wife — it  was  banned  by  the  libraries  whose  circulation 
was  still  at  the  mercy  of  strange  cerebral  congestions. 
The  insult  and  the  injury  have  not  yet  been  forgiven,  and 
in  Avowals  you  may  see  Moore's  resentment  bursting  into 
new  flame,  and  again  that  queer  resolve  to  justify  the  book 
by  the  good  it  achieved  ;  the  new  proof  being  that  four  years 
after  Esther  Waters  was  published  a  nurse  was  so  impressed 
by  it  that  she  renounced  the  projected  foundation  of  a 
convalescent  home,  and  started  a  home  for  the  infants 
of  unmarried  working  mothers.  I  could  understand  his 
insistence  upon  the  practical  argument  if  he  were  still 
pleading  with  Mudie's,  Smith's  and  the  rest;  I  fail  to 
understand  that  insistence  when  he  is  pleading  the  cause 
of  art  before  the  privileged  few  for  whom  privately  printed 
books  such  as  Avoivals  are  issued.  To  one  creative  writer 
was  it  given  to  reconcile  now  and  again  the  imaginative 
and  the  moral ;  by  sheer  pressure  of  genius  Tolstoi 
was  able  to  constrain  the  wine  of  a  supreme  imagination 
into  the  bottles  of  a  dogmatic  morality.  I  do  not  suggest 
that  his  art  was  the  worse  for  this  noble  attempt,  I  do 
not  see  that  it  is  better;  but  the  attempt  assuredly 
manifests  the  superb  strength  of  the  Russian  realist. 
'  Always  more  of  a  moralist  than  an  artist  I '  cries  our  author 
of  Tolstoi,  forgetting  that  in  his  inconstant  fusion  of  the 
two  Tolstoi  becomes  one  of  the  great  shaking  forces  of 
the  modern  world ;  and  naturally  repelled  by  his  huge, 
dark,  irregular  genius  as  by  a  wild  mountain  storm. 

It  is  scarcely  a  derogation  to  say  that  in  neither 
imaginative  nor  moral  power  is  George  Moore  the  equal 
of  Tolstoi.  Faithfulness  to  his  subject  is  Moore's  ex- 
cellence, not  the  imaginative  intensification  of  the  subject. 


117 

Turning  from  Ivan  Ilyitch  to  Esther  Waters  you  turn 
without  shame,  although  aware  of  a  descent  from  clouded 
heights  to  easy  plain;  but  from  Ivan  Ilyitch — nay,  from 
Esther  Waters  itself  to  Lewis  Seymour  or  Mike  Fletcher  you 
cannot  pass  without  shame,  sorrow,  nausea.  .  .  .  Moore's 
master  was  first  Balzac  and  then  Turgenev;  he  turned 
from  force  to  beauty,  from  energy  to  order,  and  it  is  not 
complainingly  that  his  inevitable  choice  is  noted  here,  if 
choice  it  can  be  called  that  was  so  purely  dictated  by  an 
alert,  unimpassioned  nature. 

It  is  characteristic  of  our  author,  as  we  shall  have  other 
occasions  of  noting,  that  the  theme  of  Esther  Waters 
haunted  him  like  a  remembered  phrase  of  his  admired 
Wagner  until  (in  1911)  he  had  turned  his  novel  into  a 
play.  A  French  actress  wanted  to  take  the  part  of 
Esther,  and  so  the  first  three  acts  (as  good  as  the  novel, 
he  thinks)  were  written  and  the  last  two  stitched  on 
during  rehearsals.  He  had  never  put  his  back  into  a 
play,  but  now  he  made  an  attempt,  and  if  I  hazard  the 
crude  opinion  that  the  result  was  a  novel  in  dramatic 
form,  I  am  driven  to  admit  that  this  opinion  was 
apparently  not  shared  by  the  Stage  Society,  which 
produced  Esther  Waters,  a  Play  in  Five  Acts.  The  division 
into  five  acts  is  purely  arbitrary,  and  made  evident  by 
the  resources  of  the  printer  rather  than  the  art  of  the 
author.  Moore's  dilemma  may  have  been  a  concealed 
one,  but  it  was  real  enough.  To  adhere  closely  to  the 
story  of  the  novel  was  impossible  if  a  good  play  was  to 
be  written;  to  depart  from  it  was  to  provoke  resentful 
comparisons.  Let  well  alone  !  is  the  appeal  of  the  reader, 
an  appeal  which  becomes  urgent  as  he  turns  the  last 
pages  of  the  play.  Compared  with  the  art  of  drama,  the 
novelist's  art  is  slow  in  development  as  a  growing  oak ; 
but  the  play  moves  with  the  swiftness  of  a  building  of 
five  floors.     And  is  it  not  a  pity  to  cut  down  a  mature. 


118 

green-leaved  tree  for  the  purposes  of  a  dramatic  house  ? 
I  shall  have  occasion  to  note  in  a  moment  the  strange  itch 
that  touches  Moore  (as  it  has  touched  worse  artists)  when 
he  looks  upon  the  easy-seeming  success  of  the  theatre. 
It  is  as  if  he  said  in  his  secret  mind — for  even  Moore  has 
a  secret  mind  for  his  work,  which  all  his  frankness  does 
not  betray — Look  at  this  play  and  that  play  by  such  and 
another  worthless  author;  a  play  made  out  of  a  novel, 
and  running  for  a  hundred  nights.  Isn't  Esther  Waters 
a  far  better  novel,  and  can't  I  make  a  no  less  superior 
play? — Well,  he  has  tried,  but  it  is  a  play  in  which  the 
dramatic  does  not  happen.  There  is  not  a  half-note  ot 
difference  between  the  pitch  of  one  act  and  another.  A 
different  ending  is  provided,  but  the  reader  is  pre-con- 
vinced  that  a  different  ending  will  be  a  weak  ending — as 
it  proves ;  and  on  the  other  hand  such  undramatic  scenes 
are  faithfully  retained  as  that  of  the  dispute  between  the 
servants  over  the  Silver  Braid  sweepstakes.  It  is  not 
an  isolated  flatness.  Moore's  preface  to  the  play  ends 
amusingly : — 

'Esther  Waters  was  produced  by  Mr.  Clifford  Brooke, 
and  from  the  first  rehearsal  he  seemed  to  have  the 
entire  play  in  his  head,  and  to  see  it  on  the  stage  in 
its  every  detail.  So  I  never  interfered ;  there  was 
no  necessity.  Once  I  did  interfere.  It  seemed  to 
me  preferable  that  the  prayer  should  be  recited  in  the 
middle  of  the  stage  in  front  of  the  audience,  and  in 
this  it  appears  I  was  wrong;  at  all  events,  a  well- 
known  actress,  and  one  of  great  talent,  complained  of 
this  bit  of  stage  management.  Her  suggestion  was 
that  Esther  should  hide  her  face  in  a  cushion;  that 
would  give  an  idea  of  family  prayers,  and  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  public  and  the  artistic  producer 
I  am  sure  she  is  right;  but  as  I  very  seldom  write 
plays  and  shall  never  own  a  theatre,  nobody  need 
be  seriously  annoyed  because  I  think  everything 
outside  of  the  text  and  the  acting  is  mere  vulgarity.' 


119 

The  natural  jealousy  of  the  artist,  upon  which  the  whole 
craft  of  the  stage  so  unerringly  infringes,  has  seldom  been 
more  sharply  expressed ;  for  Moore's  anxiety  to  write  a 
play  is  after  all  a  subordinate  anxiety,  and  his  insistence 
upon  the  supremacy  of  his  own  kingdom  remains  un- 
weakened.  At  any  rate,  failure  as  a  dramatic  writer  has 
not  weakened  his  conviction,  and  there  has  been  no 
success  to  sap  it.  ^Everything  outside  of  the  text  and 
the  acting  is  mere  vulgarity ' — yes,  he  is  at  times  con- 
temptuous of  the  theatre,  even  if  that  contempt  wears 
the  hue  of  envy ;  for  he  is  not  removed  from  the  weakness 
of  the  wise  and  the  failings  of  those  who  have  succeeded. 

Esther  Waters^  a  Play  in  Five  ActSj  is  not  the  only  one  of 
his  books  in  which  the  preface  atones  for  the  disappoint- 
ment that  follows  it.  It  was  while  listening  to  an  actress 
who  took  a  minor  part  in  the  Stage  Society's  performance 
that  the  author  murmured,  '  There  is  no  doubt  that  acting 
tells  something  that  no  other  art  can  tell.'  But  if  you 
ask  what  it  is,  Moore  does  not  answer ;  it  is  an  unguessed 
secret,  and  anxious  as  he  is  to  guess  it  and  achieve  a 
victory  over  the  alien  medium,  a  secret  it  remains.  His 
natural  jealousy  reappears  in  his  allusion  to  another 
actress  who  did  not  think  that  Mrs.  Rivers  would  speak 
of  suckling  her  baby  ;  to  which  his  retort  was  that  he  did 
not  propose  to  reopen  with  her  the  question  of  his  choice 
of  a  profession  ;  a  retort  which  many  might  wish  to  make 
and  few  utter  aloud,  and  fewer  yet  record  as  uttered. 
Moore  smooths  out  the  allusion  with  an  added — 'I've 
nothing  but  good  to  say  of  everybody  ;  the  little  fault- 
finding being  very  little  indeed.' 

The  sharp  itch  for  the  drama  may  not  have  been  wholly 
responsible  for  that  oddly-begotten  play.  The  Bending  of 
the  Boughj  but  I  cannot  believe  that  Moore  wrote  it 
without  trying  to  write  as  well  as  he  could.  The  Bending 
of  the  Bough  confesses  the  influence  of  Ibsen  more  plainly 
than  The  Strike  at  Ar  ling  ford,  but  it  shares  equally  with  the 


120 

earlier  play  a  harshness  of  subject  and  a  dulness  of  tone 
surprising  in  our  author.  The  harshness  and  dulness  are 
happily  redeemed  by  speeches  which  make  agreeable 
additions  to  experimental  philosophy,  even  while  they 
diminish  the  dramatic  interest  for  which  you  needs  must 
look  somewhat  narrowly,  if  not  quite  in  vain.  Kir  wan  the 
mystic  utters  those  truths  which  Mr.  Yeats,  distant  pupil 
of  aery  philosophers,  must  often  have  dropped  into  the 
playwright's  ear — '  You  were  dissatisfied  even  with  the 
earth  under  your  feet ;  the  air  was  empty  of  supersensuous 
life.  .  .  .  There  are  only  two  chains,  the  material  and  the 
spiritual  .  .  .  there  is  but  one  way  to  attain  the  spiritual, 
and  that  is  by  sacrifice.'  Assuredly  Mr.  Martyn  was 
sardonically  gratified  if  he  read  this  version  of  his  own 
despised  play,  and  perhaps  turned  to  the  preface  with  a 
simpler  pleasure  to  note  how  heartily  Moore  despised  the 
theatre,  from  which — in  writing,  scenery  and  acting  alike 
— intellect  had  been  sullenly  excluded.  Art  was  produced 
in  the  youth  of  a  nation.  It  had  left  England,  but  in  its 
bewildered  passage  might  it  not  rest  for  a  space  on  that 
forlorn  Atlantic  island  where  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre 
was  lifting  a  wan  head  ? .  .  .  The  preface,  save  in  antici- 
patory phrases,  is  hardly  the  work  of  the  author  who  was 
about  to  draw  from  Ireland  his  rarest  impulse ;  but  had  it 
been  tenfold  brighter  and  lighter,  it  could  not  vivify  a 
dull  play.  One  beautiful  prelusive  passage  might  be 
noted — '  In  artistic  England  the  pallor  of  centuries  shines 
in  the  inactive  autumn  air.  The  thrush  is  silent,  the 
nightingale  has  flown,  and  the  robin  sits  on  the  coral 
hedge  piping  his  little  roundelay.' 

A  far  better  play  is  The  Coming  of  Gahrielle,  the  re- 
written form  of  the  comedy  which  originally  bore  the  title 
Elisabeth  Cooper.  That  it  should  have  been  neglected  by 
those  obscure  Incomprehensibles,  the  theatrical  managers, 
may  appear  astonishing.  Something  of  the  quality  of 
Congreve's  dialogue — and  Moore  is  among  the  admirers  of 
that  alert  elegance  of  action  and  speech  which  enchants 


121 

the  reader  of  Love  for  Love  and  The  Way  of  the  World — 
has  been  preserved  in  The  Coming  of  Gahrielle,  and  tempts 
one  to  indignation  at  delays  exceeding  the  law's  ;  for  I 
think  it  cannot  often  happen  that  a  play  that  is  so  truly  a 
comedy  is  neither  rejected  nor  produced.  The  changes 
which  have  been  wrought  in  the  original  composition  are 
valuable,  but  even  in  Elizabeth  Cooper  there  is  much  of 
the  wit  and  lightness  of  the  new  version.  Moore's  atti- 
tude towards  the  theatre  is  once  again  freely  expressed  in 
the  preface,  in  which  he  condemns  the  realistic  play  even 
while  he  yields  a  faint  obeisance  to  it.  He  would  revert 
to,  and  start  from,  the  old  five-act  comedy  form,  each  act 
with  its  several  scenes  changed  before  the  eyes  of  the 
spectator;  for  in  such  a  form  there  would  be  room  for 
more  story,  variety,  life.  The  story,  once  again,  is  the 
thing. — ^Well,  there  is  story,  complexity,  movement  in 
The  Coming  of  Gabrielle,  even  without  this  reversion  to  an 
earlier  type ;  but  if  the  author  may  be  credited,  not  the 
greatest  of  public  success  would  induce  him  to  write 
another  play,  his  thirst  having  been  slaked  in  the  writing 
of  this  sole  comedy  that  pleases  him.  It  is  as  if  he  had 
tried  and  tried  again,  and  having  at  last  succeeded  and 
convinced  himself  that  he  could  write  not  only  novel, 
romance,  reminiscence,  and  essay,  but  comedy  as  well,  and 
therefore  was  so  much  the  more  completely  a  man  of 
letters,  he  was  content  with  this  single,  conclusive  proof, 
and,  indeed,  no  longer  envious  but  merely  proud.  Gabri- 
elle herself  I  can  conceive  as  a  brilliant  triumph  on  the 
stage,  granting  the  discovery  of  an  actress  superlatively 
endowed  with  vivacity  and  intelligence,  able  to  match 
with  hers  the  brightness  of  the  later  Congreve.  That  the 
theme  of  the  play  is  merely  a  deception  which  does  not 
deceive,  concluding  with  a  light  revenge  foregone,  will 
not  blind  the  reader  to  the  dramatic  excitement  of  a  per- 
formance, even  if  it  be  played  only  within  his  own  brain 
by  the  nimble  and  capricious  puppets  of  imagination. 


CHAPTER  IV 

NON  DOLET! 


The  parts  1  most  esteeme  in  my  selfe,  reape  more 
honor  by  accusing  then  by  commending  my  selfe. 
And  that's  the  cause  I  more  often  fall  into  them 
againe  and  rest  upon  them.  But  when  all  the 
cardes  be  told,  a  man  never  speakes  of  himselfe 
without  losse.  A  man's  own  condemnations  are 
ever  increased :  praises  ever  decreased.  — Montaigne, 


THE  year  1887  saw  the  publication  of  a  curious, 
chaotic  book,  Pamell  and  His  Island,  a  study  in  a 
forsaken  mode  of  political-social  interests,  with  the  familiar 
Balzacian  interventions  and  interludes.  It  is  not  the 
Moore  we  best  know  that  writes — '  And  still  dreaming  of 
my  Irish  France,  I  listened  to  the  monotonous  story  of  a 
broken  barrel-organ,  and,  looking  at  the  poor  devil  of  an 
Italian,  I  knew  well  that  nobody  here,  except  perhaps  the 
distiller,  is  rich  enough  to  throw  him  a  penny.'  The  same 
forgotten  disciple  writes  of  Dublin — 'Town  of  miserable 
vice  and  hideous  decrepitude ; '  and  of  the  Shelburne — 
*The  pen  of  a  Balzac  would  be  necessary  to  describe  it.'  .  .  . 
The  country  exudes  the  damp,  flaccid,  evil  smell  of 
poverty,  and  never  has  he  observed  in  the  peasantry  the 
slightest  aesthetic  intention  ;  never  was  a  pot  of  flowers 
seen  in  the  cottage  window  of  an  Irish  Celt. 

The  scenes  of  the  book,  he  says,  have  been  chosen 
because  they  seemed  typical  and  picturesque  aspects  of  a 
primitive  country  and  barbarous  people.  Unconcerned 
with  this  or  that  interest,  indifferent  to  this  or  that 
opinion,  his  desire  was  to  produce  a  series  of  pictures  to 
touch  the  fancy  of  the  reader  as  a  Japanese  ivory  or  fan, 
combinations  of  hue  and  colour  calculated  to  awake  in 
him  fictitious  feelings  of  pity,  curiosity  and  nostalgia  of 
the  unknown.  But  have  these  scenes  been  *  chosen '  at 
all  }  I  call  the  book  chaotic,  and  a  slight  gla.ice  will 
show  that  it  is  made  up  in  part  of  the  material  used  in 
other  books.  Cut  out  of  it  certain  considerable  passages 
to  be  found  in  A  Drama  in  Muslin,  and  you  cut  out  much 
of  the  best  of  the  book.  There  is  the  fashionable  dress- 
maker,  for   instance,   the    ear    for    all   confidences   and 

125 


126 

intimacies  in  both  books ;  there  is  an  almost  precise 
repetition  of  that  oddly  effective  scene  in  the  novel,  in 
which  the  Barton  tenants  insist  upon  a  reduction  of  their 
rents  by  twenty-five  per  cent. ;  but  in  Pamell  and  His 
Island  the  spectator  is  the  poet  who,  intensely  wearied, 
strives  to  amuse  himself  by  recalling  a  sonnet  of 
Mallarme's.  Another  incident  in  this  early  essay  is  used 
with  how  much  finer  an  art  in  the  passage  in  Vale  where 
our  author  relates  his  visit  to  the  grave  of  that  adven- 
turous ancestor  who  established  for  a  while  the  fortunes 
of  the  Moores.  .  .  .  These  returns  and  renewals  illustrate 
once  again  his  frugal  habit ;  for  Moore's  is  not  a  royal  and 
prodigal  gift,  and  for  all  his  supreme  interest  in  the  story 
and  ease  in  telling  a  story,  there  is  no  careless  largesse 
anywhere,  but  rather  the  anxious  concentration  which  a 
growing  accomplishment  has  taught  him  both  to  increase 
and  to  disguise. 

It  is  related  that  Douglas  Hyde,  discussing  with  Moore 
the  possibilities  of  the  novelist's  aid  in  the  revival  of  the 
Irish  language  and  literature,  pointed  to  Pamell  and  His 
Island  as  an  obstacle,  saying  that  it  would  go  against  his 
aim,  so  far  as  the  League  was  concerned.  '  I  should  have 
thought,'  Moore  answered, '  that  the  League  would  have 
accepted  those  who  are  willing  to  help  Ireland  to  recover 
her  language,  and  not  to  bother  about  my  past.'  Enduring 
as  well  as  he  could  the  irritating  little  laugh  of  his  friend, 
he  listened  as  Hyde  wonderfully  proceeded — '  The  League 
might  be  reconciled  to  your  book  if  you  were  to  issue  it 
with  a  sub-title — Pamell  and  His  Island,  or  Ireland  rvithout 
Her  Language  '/  for  wasn't  it  perhaps  Moore's  best  book  ? 
— If  indeed  Douglas  Hyde  was  guilty  of  such  a  notion, 
Moore's  continual  revenges  throughout  Hail  and  Farewell 
were  not  inexcusable.  '  Mere  gabble  ! '  was  his  immediate 
answer,  for  he  had  reason  to  taste  to  the  full  that  intimate 
shame  which  the  true  artist  feels  on  a  revisiting  glance  at 
work  which  he  wishes  had  never  been  written  or  read. 


127 

Pamell  and  His  Island  is  scarcely  such  a  book,  but  although 
I  cannot  pretend  to  combat  an  Irishman's  view,  I  can  see 
clearly  enough  that  its  only  interest  now  is  for  the 
craftsman  who  seeks  to  discover  a  small  sign  of  the  author 
in  it,  and  determine  what  place  it  holds  in  his  Pilgrim's 
Progress  from  a  half-real  to  a  wholly  real  world.  He 
stands  but  precariously  in  a  half-real  world  when  he 
writes — 'I  am  a  close  observer  of  life,  and  am,  I  think, 
as  free  from  prejudice  as  any  man,  but  this  I  am  bound 
to  admit — that  it  is  impossible  to  over-estimate  the 
patriotism  of  Irishmen.  .  .  .  Their  love  of  Ireland  is,  as  it 
were,  a  sort  of  constitutional  vice  that  nothing  can,  that 
nothing  will  be  able  to  uproot.' — And  there  is  no  godlike 
indifference  to  either  sphere  when  he  speaks  of  the 
terrible  Irish  incubus,  wondering  what  measures  Salisbury 
and  Randolph  Churchill  will  adopt  to  rid  England  of  it, 
and  finding  himself  obliged  to  admit  the  existence  of  a 
race-hatred.  In  two  years  from  1887  a  free  Parliament 
would  be  given  to  Ireland,  Irish-Americans  would  flock 
back,  and  in  a  short,  phantasmal  seven  years  all  traces  of 
seven  hundred  years  of  Saxon  conquest  would  disappear. 
What  then  ? — when  the  inevitable  war  with  Russia  began, 
the  Irish- Americans  who  wdlild  be  governing  in  Dublin 
would  declare  independence.  Unhappy  is  every  prophet, 
exposed  to  stoning  even  when  he  is  wrong  as  well  as 
when  he  is  right ;  and  it  is  not  without  reason,  for  the 
prophet  who  prophesies  falsely  is  only  less  maddening 
than  is  he  who  prophesies  truly. 

But  to  deplore  the  book — and  it  has  been  deplored — is 
to  exaggerate  the  influence  of  literature  upon  affairs. 
Pamell  and  His  Island  is  an  essay  in  literature,  and  its  real 
value  is  that  of  the  marking  on  a  wall  by  which  a  towering 
small  child's  height  is  taken  on  successive  birthdays.  As 
politics  it  need  not  be  read,  much  less  censured,  and  as 
literature  it  can  be  remembered  for  the  simplest  uses  of 
history  and  portraiture. 


128 

Moore  has  acknowledged  freely  enough  how  quickly 
the  Irishman  in  him  evaporated  at  the  contact  with 
London  and  Paris  ;  but  when  that  disguised  heavenly 
agent  beckoned  him  from  Paris  back  to  London,  and  sent 
him,  so  curiously  garbed,  visiting  Moore  Hall  again,  the 
Irishman  began  slowly  to  re-solidify,  and  childish  scenes, 
as  I  have  said,  reasserted  their  power  while  the  novelist 
was  seeking  after  his  own.  I  am  satisfied  to  note  this 
in  passing,  and  to  say  that  in  meditating  or  writing  A 
Mummer  s  Wife  and  A  Drama  in  Muslin  in  Ireland,  he  was 
unconsciously  preparing  for  the  more  instinctive  ex- 
pression of  The  Lake  and  Hail  and  Farewell ;  and  if  one 
certain  thing  may  be  observed  of  this  most  fluid  and 
changeful  writer,  it  is  again  and  again  this — that  his  own 
earth  was  needed  to  renew  and  enhance  his  imaginative 
power,  even  for  the  sake  of  books  of  so  foreign  a  setting 
as  The  Brook  Kerith  and  Helo'ise  and  Ahelard. 

Fondness  for  his  native  country — it  needs  no  boldness 
to  assert  the  eminence  of  that  affection  in  almost  every 
imaginative  writer  in  the  English  tongue ;  a  fondness 
sometimes  restricted  to  the  physical  shape  and  character 
of  the  land,  to  its  hills  and  rivers  and  magical  dark  woods, 
sometimes  narrowly  localized  and  enfolding  a  single  aspect 
or  a  single  county,  and  sometimes  extended  to  the  whole 
tradition  and  history  of  English  life  and  character  until 
it  becomes  metaphysically  wide  but  still  sensitive  and 
passionate.  The  point  is  sharpened  if  half  a  dozen  English 
writers  of  verse  or  prose  are  contrasted  with  half  a  dozen 
American,  for  the  American  writers  betray  no  such 
fondness — nor,  indeed,  any  other  national  characteristic, 
strongly  marked  as  American  characteristics  appear  in  other 
transactions  of  the  human  spirit ;  for  it  seems  that  contact 
with  their  Western  earth  enfeebles  the  free  intelligence, 
and  that  the  excursion  of  Hawthorne  and  the  exile  of 
Henry  James  were  equally  in  the  spirit  of  Christian's  flight. 
I  cannot  allow  this  dogmatism  to  be  invalidated  by  the 


129 

delightful  instance  of  Mark  Twain.  On  the  subject  of 
nationality  in  art,  says  Moore,  one  can  talk  for  a  long 
while. 

Fondness  for  his  native  country  may  not  appear  to  be  a 
chief  mark  of  the  genius  of  George  Moore,  and  Pamell 
and  His  Island  may  even  seem  the  plainest  contradiction  of 
such  a  claim.  Yet  it  is  obvious  that  he  has,  at  any  rate, 
that  primary  affection  which,  as  we  have  just  observed,  is 
restricted  to  the  physical  shape  and  character  of  the  land, 
the  local  affection  which  is  naturally  stronger  in  poets 
than  in  other  men.  He  would  fain  be  esteemed  a  citizen 
of  the  world  but,  like  the  poet's,  his  heart  lodges  in  a 
narrower  field.  Even  this  early  book  is  redeemed  by 
touches  of  that  deft  and  tender  drawing  which  twenty  or 
thirty  years  of  work  were  to  bring  to  delicious  mastery ; 
for  among  the  first  of  countless  sketches  of  patrimonial 
scenes  is — '  The  day  dreams  tenderly,  and  in  the  genial 
sunlight  the  pink  dresses  of  the  girls  are  sweet  spots  of 
colour,  and  the  wide  lake,  with  all  its  reeds  and  islands 
and  shallowing  shores,  sparkles  like  a  hand-mirror  in  the 
sun.'  Other  passages  of  the  same  affection  occur,  and 
if  they  have  now  mainly  an  historical  or  psychological 
interest,  they  serve  also  to  give  a  pleasanter  tone  to  an 
uneasy,  complaining  book. 

The  years  that  crept  by  after  the  publication  of  Pamell 
and  His  Island  were  years  of  imaginative  divorce  from 
Ireland  ;  and  it  was  long  before  he  awoke  and  realized 
that  the  question  of  nationality  was  one  which  would 
not  for  ever  leave  him  at  peace.  Ave  opens  with  that 
question,  and  as  he  ponders  he  recollects  his  own  half- 
unconscious  truism  that  art  must  be  parochial  in  the 
beginning  to  become  cosmopolitan  in  the  end. 

'  I  began  to  think  of  the  soul  which  Edward 
Martyn  had  told  me  I  had  lost  in  Paris  and  London, 
and  if  it  were  true  that  whoever  casts  off  tradition 


130 

is  like  a  tree  transplanted  into  uncongenial  soil. 
TourgueniefF  was  of  that  opinion :  "  Russia  can  do 
without  any  one  of  us^  but  none  of  us  can  do  without 
Russia " — one  of  his  sentimental  homilies  grown 
wearisome  from  constant  repetition,  true,  perhaps, 
of  Russia,  but  utterly  untrue  of  Ireland.  Far  more 
true  would  it  be  to  say  that  an  Irishman  must  fly 
from  Ireland  if  he  would  be  himself.  Englishmen, 
Scotchmen,  Jews,  do  well  in  Ireland — Irishmen 
never ;  even  the  patriot  has  to  leave  Ireland  to  get 
a  hearing.  We  must  leave  Ireland ;  and  I  did  well 
to  listen  in  Montmartre.' 


The  talent  he  brought  into  the  world  might  have  pro- 
duced rarer  fruit  if  it  had  been  cultivated  less  sedulously, 
he  muses ;  Ballinrobe  or  the  Nouvelle  Athenes — which  ? 
But  the  question  is  not  merely  a  personal  one ;  Ireland 
itself — was  it  not  strange  that  Ireland  should  have  pro- 
duced so  little  literature  ?  for  there  is  a  pathos  in  Ireland, 
in  its  people,  in  its  landscape,  and  in  its  ruins.  Pondering 
all  this  and  putting  it  by  and  returning  to  it  again  in  an 
exquisite  mood  of  reverie,  he  adds,  ^  I  haven't  thought  of 
Ireland  for  ten  years,  and  to-night  in  an  hour's  space  I 
have  dreamed  Ireland  from  end  to  end.  When  shall  I 
think  of  her  again  ?  In  another  ten  years  ;  that  will  be 
time  enough  to  think  of  her  again.' 

It  was  less  than  ten  years  later  that  Ireland  revisited 
him  in  the  persons  of  Edward  Martyn  and  a  stranger — 
^  Edward  great  in  girth  as  an  owl  (he  is  nearly  as  neckless), 
blinking  behind  his  glasses,  and  Yeats  lank  as  a  rook, 
a-dreara  in  black  silhouette  on  the  flowered  wall-paper.' 
Their  business,  it  appeared,  since  it  was  no  doorstep 
casualty,  was  to  found  a  Literary  Theatre  in  Dublin  and 
to  get  Moore's  support.  'Ninety-nine,  urged  Martyn,  is 
the  beginning  of  the  Celtic  Renaissance ;  and  Moore 
quickly  replied  that  the  Celt  needed  a  renaissance  badly, 
for  he  had  been  going  down  in  the  world  for  the  last 


131 

two  thousand  years — a  suggestion  which  his  visitors  may 
very  well  have  thought  a  little  ungracious.  Dublin,  said 
one  of  them,  was  the  capital  of  the  Celtic  Renaissance ; — 
A  new  Florence  ?  was  the  incredulous  or  scornful  reply, 
followed  by  the  assertion  that  Ireland  and  Moore  had 
ever  been  strangers,  without  an  idea  in  common.  .  .  . 
His  scepticism  yields  to  the  subtle  influences  which  steal 
from  Mr.  Yeats's  lips,  until  he  becomes  deliciously  excited 
at  the  thought  of  an  Irish  Literary  Theatre  and  his  own 
participation  in  the  Celtic  Renaissance,  and  recalls  the 
first  performance  of  the  Independent  Theatre,  which  he 
had  himself  organized.  With  the  story  of  that  perform- 
ance The  Strike  at  Arlingford  is  involved,  but  it  need  not 
detain  us  just  now.  Ave  tells  of  the  gradual  entanglement 
of  our  author  in  the  snare  of  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre ; 
of  Moore  and  Martyn  walking  together  to  the  rehearsals 
of  The  Heather  Field,  '  Edward's  bluff  and  dogmatic 
shoulders  contrasting  with  my  own  very  agnostic  sloping 
shoulders  ; '  of  the  rehearsals  of  a  nondescript  company 
towards  whom  Moore  soon  assumed  a  surprisingly  master- 
ful position ;  and  of  the  departure  of  the  sifted  and 
re-sifted  mummers  for  Dublin.  *  Are  you  not  coming  with 
us  .'* '  cried  his  oldest  of  friends  from  the  moving  train  at 
Euston,  a  question  reinforced  by  a  telegram  of  which  the 
words  (you  are  invited  to  believe)  as  well  as  the  sense  ran, 
'The  sceptre  of  intelligence  has  passed  from  London  to 
Dublin.'  Significant  is  it  that,  years  after,  Moore  found 
in  that  telegram  the  masculine  persuasive  force  that  bade 
him  from  his  study  to  Dublin. 

*  Again  and  again  I  read  Edward's  telegram.  If  it 
be  true,  if  art  be  winging  her  way  westward  ?  And  a 
vision  rose  up  before  me  of  argosies  floating  up  the 
Liffey,  laden  with  merchandise  from  all  the  ports 
of  Phoenicia,  and  poets  singing  in  all  the  bowers  of 
Merrion  Square  ;  and  all  in  a  new  language  that  the 
poets  had  learned,  the  English  language  having  been 


132 

discovered  by  them,  as  it  had  been  discovered  by  me, 
to  be  a  declining  language,  a  language  that  was  losing 
its  verbs.' 

Rousseau-like,  Moore  acknowledges  his  disappointment 
at  his  unfriended  entry  into  the  new  Florence ;  he  expected, 
if  not  a  deputation,  at  least  some  acquaintances  to  meet 
him,  but  notwithstanding  his  heralding  telegram,  there 
was  nobody  at  the  quay,  nobody  at  the  station,  nobody  at 
the  Shelburne.  He  entered  that  hotel  as  any  stranger 
from  America  might,  unknown,  unwelcomed;  and  it  was 
with  a  sinking  heart  that  he  asked  vainly  if  an  invitation, 
a  mere  note  even,  had  been  left  for  him.  Was  it  an 
anticipation  of  that  later  hint  from  Mr.  Douglas  Hyde 
that  the  newest  of  apostles  might  be  more  useful  to  the 
cause  in  England  than  in  Ireland  ? 

Happily  he  did  not,  he  could  not  remain  for  long 
an  embarrassed  phantom ;  he  was  promptl}'^  immersed  in 
the  grotesque  difficulty  of  producing  such  a  play  as  The 
Countess  Cathleen  in  the  Antient  Concert  Rooms.  His 
part  in  the  adventure  of  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre  was 
admirable,  and  was  freely  acknowledged  by  Mr.  Yeats 
in  the  first  issue  of  the  magazine  published  by  the  theatre 
— Samkain : — 

'When  Lady  Gregory,  Mr.  Edward  Martyn,  and 
myself  planned  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre,  we  decided 
that  it  should  be  carried  on  in  the  form  we  had  pro- 
jected for  three  years.  We  thought  that  three  years 
would  show  whether  the  country  desired  to  take  up  the 
project,  and  make  it  a  part  of  the  national  life,  and 
that  we,  at  any  rate,  could  return  to  our  proper  work, 
in  which  we  did  not  include  theatrical  management, 
at  the  end  of  that  time.  A  little  later,  Mr.  George 
Moore  joined  us ;  and,  looking  back  now  upon  our 
work,  I  doubt  if  it  could  have  been  done  at  all  without 
his  great  knowledge  of  the  stage;  and  certainly  if 
the   performances   of    the   present  year    bring    our 


133 

adventure  to  a  successful  closCj  a  chief  part  of  the 
credit  will  be  his.' 

'I  hope/  he  says,  in  speaking  of  the  future  of  the 
Celtic  Renaissance,  'I  hope  to  get  our  heroic  age  into 
verse,  and  to  solve,  for  all  Mr.  Moore's  unbelief,  some 
problems  of  the  speaking  of  verse  to  musical  notes.'  He 
did  not  want  dramatic  blank  verse  to  be  chanted,  as  people 
understand  that  word,  but  neither  did  he  want  actors  to 
speak  as  prose  what  he  had  taken  much  trouble  to  write 
as  verse.  Ave  reveals  how  complete  was  the  difference 
between  Moore's  idea  of  production  and  the  idea  of  Mr. 
Yeats ;  but  nevertheless  our  author  was  not  discouraged, 
and  his  confession  of  faith  (in  Samhain)  will  give  you  part 
of  the  reason.  He  was  moved  to  join  his  friends  because 
he  had  come  to  know  the  hopelessness  of  all  artistic  effort 
in  England ;  he  had  discovered  the  English  decadence 
before  he  discovered  his  own  conscience,  and  saw  nothing 
around  him  save  intellectual  decay  and  moral  degradation. 
But  the  rest  of  the  reason  was  still  hidden  from  him  when 
The  Countess  Cathleen  provoked  denunciation  and  uproar. 
Was  it  simply  the  sense  of  beauty  }  *  The  Countess  Cathleen,' 
he  says,  '  awakened  in  all  who  saw  it  a  sense  of  beauty,  and 
a  sense  of  beauty,  once  awakened,  is  immortal.'  Moore's 
loyalty  to  that  sense  had  been  constant. 

'There  has  been  no  mt>re  disinterested  movement 
than  the  Gaelic  League.  It  has  worked  for  the  sake 
of  the  language  without  hope  of  reward  or  praise  ;  and 
if  I  were  asked  why  I  put  my  faith  in  the  movement, 
I  would  answer  that  to  believe  that  a  movement 
distinguished  by  so  much  self-sacrifice  could  fail, 
would  be  like  believing  in  the  failure  of  goodness  itself. 

'  Since  we  began  our  work  plays  have  been  written, 
some  in  Irish  and  some  in  English,  and  we  shall  be 
forgiven  if  we  take  a  little  credit  for  having  helped 
to  awaken  intellectual  life  in  Ireland.  Many  will 
think  I  am  guilty  of  exaggeration  when  I  say  that  the 


134 

Irish    Literary  Theatre   has   done   more   to   awaken 
intellectual  life  in  Ireland  than  Trinity  College.' 

One  does  not  like  to  speak  of  a  double  self,  he  murmurs, 
as  he  looks  within  and  without  and  reverts  to  his  visit  to 
Dublin,  but  he  thinks  it  necessary  to  speak  of  his  self- 
consciousness ;  for  although  that  is  a  quality  which  he 
shares  with  every  human  being,  no  two  human  beings  are 
alike  in  everything,  and  his  self-consciousness  may  be 
different  from  another's.  His,  then,  has  always  been  a 
good  friend  to  him,  for  as  he  walks  through  the  streets 
scene  after  scene  rises  up  in  his  mind,  in  which  he  takes 
all  the  parts  and  utters  all  the  dialogue.  *  In  my  novels  I 
can  only  write  tragedy,  and  in  life  play  nothing  but  light 
comedy,  and  the  one  explanation  that  occurs  to  me  of  the 
dual  personality  is  that  I  write  according  to  my  soul,  and 
act  according  to  my  appearance.'  His  opinion  of  his  own 
appearance,  as  that  of  a  comic  writer  and  comic  actor,  is 
itself  amusing,  for  that  noticeable,  mood-matching  coun- 
tenance, which  is  so  attractive  to  watch]  in  its  changes  and 
responses,  hardly  shows  '  the  secret  of  a  smiling  face.' 
For  these  unwritten  scenes  almost  any  event  is  sufficient 
impulse  or  pretext. 

^  Never  did  Nature  furnish  me  with  so  rich  a  theme 
as  she  did  when  Yeats  and  Edward  came  to  see  me  in 
Victoria  Street.  The  subject  was  apparent  to  me 
from  the  beginning,  and  the  reason  given  for  my 
having  accepted  to  act  with  them  in  the  matter  of 
the  Irish  Literary  Theatre  (the  temptation  to  have  a 
finger  in  every  literary  pie)  has  to  be  supplemented. 
There  was  another,  and  a  greater  temptation — the 
desire  to  secure  a  good  part  in  the  comedy  which 
I  foresaw,  and  which  had  for  the  last  three  weeks 
unrolled  itself,  scene  after  scene,  exceeding  any 
imagination  of  mine.  Who  could  have  invented 
the  extraordinary  rehearsals.  Miss  Vernon  and  her 
psaltery?     Or  the   incident  of  Yeats's  annunciation 


135 

that  Edward  had  consulted  a  theologian  in  London  ? 
My  anger  was  not  assumed  :  Yeats  told  me  he  never 
saw  a  man  so  angry ;  how  could  it  be  otherwise, 
ready  as  I  am  always  to  shed  the  last  drop  of  my 
blood  to  defend  art  ?  Yet  the  spectacle  of  Edward 
and  the  theologian  heresy-hunting  through  the  pages 
of  Yeats's  play  was  behind  my  anger  always,  an 
irresistible  comicality  that  I  should  be  able  to  enjoy 
some  day.  And  then  the  telegram  saying  that  the 
sceptre  of  intelligence  had  passed  from  London  to 
Dublin.     Who  could  have  invented  it  ? ' 

Yes,  art  is  outfaced  in  such  an  exquisite  disarray  of 
possibilities  as  these  incidents  present,  the  whole  forming 
a  kind  of  first  act  in  which  our  Sterne-like  author  was 
privileged  to  be  both  actor  and  audience.  The  second  act 
of  The  Irish  Literary  Comedy  began  to  unfold  itself  in  a 
scene  between  Moore  and  Mr.  Yeats,  the  theme  being  the 
ecclesiastical  opposition  to  The  Countess  Cathleen,  developed 
inconsequently  in  succeeding  pages  amid  interruptions  and 
diversions,  and  charming  irrelevancies  such  as  a  conversa- 
tion with  Gill,  and  Gill's  scheme  for  a  kind  of  Dublin 
Nouvelle  Athenes. 

A  further  note  on  the  call  to  Ireland  is  given  in  the 
speech  which  Moore  delivered  at  a  dinner  to  the  Irish 
Literary  Theatre  ;  for  although  he  avows  that  he  is  the 
only  living  Irishman  who  cannot  speak  for  ten  minutes,  he 
is  able  to  read  a  speech  and  to  smile  at  the  event.  It  is 
an  amusing,  reminiscent  speech,  ending  with  the  phrase, 
'  Twenty  years  hence  this  week  in  Ireland  will  be  looked 
back  upon  with  reverence.'  Alas!  and  twenty  years  have 
gone. 

The  story  of  Mr.  Edward  Martyn's  play.  The  Tale  of  a 
Town,  as  Moore  relates  it,  forms  the  third  act  in  The  Irish 
Literary  Comedy.  A  shadow  used  to  come  into  the  play- 
wright's face  at  the  thought  of  his  responsibility  in  writing 


136 

The  Tale  of  a  Totvn,  for  heresies  frightened  him ;  and 
when  Moore  read  the  whole  five  acts  and  concluded  it 
was  a  worse  play  than  The  Heather  Field,  he  conceived  it 
his  duty  to  write  to  dear  Edward,  saying  that  not  one  of 
the  five  acts  could  interest  any  possible  audience,  Irish  or 
English  or  Esquimaux.  Beautiful  is  a  durable  friendship, 
founded  in  boyhood  and  surviving  the  rude,  imperious 
shock  of  aesthetic  candour;  and  no  friendship  is  more 
wonderful  than  this  between  George  Moore  and  Mr. 
Edward  Martyn.  .  .  .  Discussion  of  the  play  was  reserved 
until  the  friends  journeyed  to  Bayreuth,  but  discussion 
anywhere  is  difficult  when  one  party  is  silent  and  allows 
but  dim  glimpses  of  his  reproachful  soul.  The  pity  which 
had  been  gathering  in  our  novelist's  breast  melted  away 
at  the  thought  that  the  dramatist  was  but  an  amateur 
after  all ;  and  then  again  his  natural  kindness  revived  on 
hearing  that  his  criticism  had  really  poisoned  his  friend's 
recent  tour  with  a  party  of  archaeologists.  '  You're  a  very 
good  critic,'  repeated  Martyn  again  and  again,  as  Moore 
tapped  and  tapped  his  sharp  points  in ;  proving  obstinate 
when  alterations  were  offered,  because  they  were  not  his 
own.  '  The  amateur  always  puts  himself  before  his  work 
.  .  .  whereas  the  artist  is  interested  in  the  thing  itself, 
and  will  accept  readily  a  suggestion  from  anyone,  if  he 
thinks  that  it  will  be  to  the  advantage  of  the  work  to  do 
so.  Je  pj'ends  mon  bien  ou  Je  le  trouve.  .  .  .  Anybody  who 
can  improve  a  sentence  of  mine  by  the  omission  of  a 
comma  or  by  the  placing  of  a  comma  is  looked  upon  as 
my  dearest  friend.' — Perfect  and  austere  passion  of  the 
artist !  How  imperfect  is  Mr.  Martyn's  judgment,  and  not 
only  in  the  matter  of  his  play,  is  sharply  discovered  in  a 
story  of  his  mistaking  a  window  exactly  six  years  old  for  a 
thirteenth-century  window,  a  story  told  not  to  display  his 
ignorance  but  his  vagueness — Mn  order  to  show  Edward 
when  the  fog  descends  upon  him.  His  comprehension  is 
never  the  same.  .  .  .   He  is  like  Ireland,  the  country  he 


137 

came   from  :    sometimes   a   muddling    fog,   sometimes    a 
delicious  mist  with  a  ray  of  light  striking  through.* 

The  third  act  develops  but  slowly,  the  subject  emerging 
in  the  arrival  of  the  friends  at  Bayreuth,  when  Moore  asked 
dear  Edward  about  the  revision,  and  for  reply  received 
the  manuscript  with  hardly  a  word  in  propitiation  of 
doom.  A  seance  de  collaboration  would  have  passed  the 
morning  nicely,  but  Mr.  Martyn  could  not  collaborate 
any  more  than  the  sheep  with  the  butcher.  His  play 
needed  revision,  and  revision  was  left  to  Moore,  who 
not  infrequently  carried  the  manuscript  away  and  forgot 
it  in  music,  or  in  walks  in  the  shady  avenues  of  the 
town,  or  in  the  Zoological  Gardens,  where  the  finest  of 
lions  proved  more  beguiling.  '  He  seemed  as  lonely  as 
myself,'  says  our  author,  'and  I  often  imagined  us  two 
together,  side  by  side.  The  Tale  of  a  Town  in  my  left 
hand,  reading  it  aloud,  while  with  the  right  I  combed 
his  great  mane  for  him.  Which  would  he  resent,  the 
reading  or  the  combing  ? ' — And  so  from  Bayreuth  home- 
ward, until  the  friends  parted  with  the  necessary 
alterations  still  unachieved,  for  at  the  mention  of  altera- 
tions Mr.  Martyn's  face  clouded ;  and  when  the  discussion 
was  perilously  reopened  at  Tillyra,  '  Leave  me  my  play ! ' 
he  cried,  adding  that  he  could  not  act  otherwise,  for  Moore 
was  giving  the  play  a  different  colour.  Moore  thereupon 
altered  it  himself,  and  then  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Yeats 
upon  the  changes  was  sought.  Pity,  or  a  resolve  to  be 
gentler  than  Mr.  Yeats,  tempted  Moore  to  say  that  he 
could  see  no  reason  why  the  play  should  not  be  performed ; 
but  conscience  forbade  the  lie.  Hence  The  Tale  of  a 
Town  by  Edward  Martyn  became  The  Beiiding  of  the 
Bough  by  George  Moore,  for  the  original  author  refused 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  later  version  and 
would  not  allow  his  name  to  be  used.  There  was  nothing 
for  it,  then,  says  Moore,  with  meek  remorse,  but  to  sign 
a  work   that    was   not  his  own ; — '  I,  too,  am  sacrificing 


138 

to  Cathleen  ni  Houlihan  ;  one  sacrifice  brings  many.'  And 
with  that  smile  the  comedy  of  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre, 
as  Moore  conceives  it,  may  be  said  to  end. 

It  seems  that  The  Bending  of  the  Bough  was  written  or 
finished  not  in  Ireland,  after  all,  but  in  London,  a  fact 
which  is  made  the  occasion  of  one  of  many  sudden 
transitions  in  the  cunning  retrospect  of  Hail  and  Farewell. 
Into  the  simple  eddies  of  dramatic  composition  a  great 
stone  was  cast.  'It  seemed  an  exquisite  joke  to  voice 
Ireland's  woes,  until  one  day  I  stopped  in  Ebury  Street, 
abashed;  for  it  was  not  a  victory  for  our  soldiers  that  I 
desired  to  read  in  the  paper  just  bought  from  the  boy  who 
had  rushed  past  me,  yelling.  News  from  the  Front,  but 
one  for  the  Boers.  The  war  was  forgotten,  and  I  walked 
on  slowly,  frightened  lest  this  sudden  and  inexplicable 
movement  of  soul  should  be  something  more  than  a  merely 
accidental  vacillation.  It  may  be  no  more,  and  it  may  be 
that  I  am  changing.'  When  a  great  stone  is  cast  into  such 
a  quiet  and  such  a  secret  pool,  the  violence  of  the  move- 
ment is  almost  startling  to  those  looking  on  ;  and  in  truth 
this  sudden  shock  of  external  upon  internal,  of  the  crude 
active  upon  the  subtle  quiescent,  caused  or  disclosed  a 
change  in  our  author  of  which  he  was  morbidly  conscious, 
asking  his  friends  if  it  had  not  touched  his  countenance. 
Was  there  indeed  something  in  the  external  world  which 
had  for  him  the  hitherto  unapproached  power  of  an 
aesthetic  problem  ?  '  The  morning  paper  was  picked  up 
from  the  hearthrug,  and  the  news  of  the  capture  of 
our  troops  read  again  and  again,  the  same  thrill  of  joy 
coming  into  my  heart.  The  Englishman  that  was  in  me 
(he  that  wrote  Esther  Waters)  had  been  overtaken  and 
captured  by  the  Irishman.' 

Nothing  more  lucid  has  been  said  of  George  Moore 
than  this  that  he  has  said  of  himself.  Despair  of  art 
drove  him  to  Ireland,  Ireland  taught  him  the  value  of 


139 

freedom  in  South  Africa,  and  South  Africa  in  turn  taught 
him  how  much  he  owed  to  Ireland.  The  dramatic  faculty, 
and  even  the  more  simple  and  candid  narrative  gift,  have 
their  several  seductions ;  and  it  is  hard  for  such  an 
inward-gazing  writer  as  Moore  to  refrain  from  inventing 
experiences  which  will  justify  his  literary  expression  of 
them.  A  glance  at  his  incessant  dramatizing  habit 
suggests  that  since  his  own  delight  in  a  sometime  passion 
for  a  free  Boer  State  is  so  transparent,  it  may  have  been 
quickened  only  when  it  became  necessary  for  his  narrative. 
But  such  a  doubt  is  unfair,  and  he  is  as  near  to  the  truth 
as  any  man  can  step  in  writing  of  himself,  when  he  records 
that  out  of  the  wreck  and  rubble  of  his  former  self  a  new 
self  had  arisen ;  he  had  learned  that  ideas  are  as  necessary 
to  us  as  our  skins.  But  sitting  like  one  flayed,  he  wondered 
what  new  ideas  would  clothe  him  again,  and  into  what 
new  life  he  was  being  led.  When  he  remembers  his 
former  self,  he  hates  it  as  much  as  he  hates  England  ; 
but  we  know  that  although  he  is  a  good  hater,  the  inward 
discord  which  is  both  hell  and  heaven  has  seldom  fretted 
the  deeps  of  his  being.  His  casual  hatred  does  not 
preclude  enjoyment,  for  he  took  pleasure  in  the  midst 
of  his  sorrow — a  grim  pleasure,  truly,  as  he  admits — in 
calling  on  his  friends  and  watching  their  faces  while  he 
assured  them  that  the  recall  of  the  English  troops  in 
South  Africa  would  be  the  wisest  thing  that  could  be 
done.  '  Love  of  cruelty  is  inveterate  in  the  human  being  ! ' 
But  human  beings  are  complicated,  and  the  invisible 
telegraphy  of  affections  and  ideas  flies  over  many  wires, 
or  is  broken,  jangled  and  lost ;  for  all  that  cruelty,  nothing 
but  the  war  interested  him,  the  obsession  becoming  more 
terrible  daily  and  the  surrender  of  his  sanity  more 
imminent.  A  shameful  materialism  revolted  him,  the 
revolt  being  aggravated — and  his  eyes  clear  again  in 
noting  this — by  memories  of  his  former  love  of  England  ; 
and  musing  upon  England,  with  all  that  was  once  sweet 


140 

turned  sour,  his  thoughts  lapse  characteristically  into  a 
meditation  upon  the  aesthetic  ignobility  of  the  English, 
until  he  wonders  whether  even  Shelley,  whose  poetry 
he  loves  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  was  free 
from  the  taint  of  England.  Unuttered  but  implicit  in  all 
his  impeachment  and  complaint  is  the  thought — Must 
he  again  leave  England,  and  for  longer  than  before,  and 
seek  in  Ireland  for  redemption  from  moral  degradation  and 
aesthetic  futility?  Revisiting  the  familiar  Sussex  Downs 
he  found  no  more  than  an  uneasy  anodyne,  and  after  a 
while  the  discontent  with  England  waxed  sharp  again, 
until  even  the  face  of  the  country  wearied  him  as  he 
looked  along  the  hills,  or  at  night  saw  shining  garlands 
hung  between  the  coast  towns. — For  there  is  no  country 
in  England,  even  the  hills  are  enriched  with  lights.  His 
thoughts  turned  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Moore  Hall, 
the  dim  waste  about  Lough  Carra,  to  other  places  and 
other  times ;  for  an  idea  had  come  into  his  life,  without 
wishing  and  without  warning,  and,  although  repulsed,  had 
taken  possession  of  him  and  made  him  hate  all  that  he 
had  loved. 

But  it  was  something  far  more  particular  and  definite 
that  forced  him  back  to  Ireland,  for  the  Irish  Literary 
Theatre  was  taking  three  fresh  plays  to  Dublin,  including 
that  sad  monument  of  another's  magnanimity.  The  Bending 
of  the  Bough. 

His  immediate  task  was  the  reading  of  a  paper  on  the 
literary  necessity  of  small  languages,  asserting  opinions 
that  are  merely  intellectual  opinions,  invented,  he  says 
smiling,  to  justifyfthe  existence  of  the  Gaelic  League. 
Candour  again  persuades  him  to  write  that  some  Gaelic 
Leaguers  who  heard  him  were  cynical,  for  they  had  not 
forgotten  or  forgiven  Pamell  and  His  Island ;  nay,  it  was 
whispered  that  he  had  returned  to  Ireland  to  write  about 
the  country  and  its  ideas,  and  would  afterwards  make  fun 
of  them  if  it  suited  him  to  do  so.  .  .  .  Dangerous  is  it  to 


141 

suggest  revenges  to  repulsed  genius  ;  and  often  must  the 
cynics  have  deplored  their  prophecies.  Some  months 
later,  when  the  cloud  cast  by  this  minor  comedy  over  his 
belief  in  the  Celtic  Renaissance  had  dissolved,  another 
theme  was  developed,  presenting  another  occasion  of 
escape  from  England — the  proposal  that  Moore  should 
write,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Yeats,  Diarmuid  and  Grania. 
The  scene  of  this  rare  collaboration,  this  impossible  con- 
junction, was  fixed  at  Coole,  already  (if  the  phrase  be  not 
impertinent)  a  kind  of  twilight  nursing  home  for  the  Irish 
Literary  Theatre  ;  for  there  had  plays  been  brought  forth 
in  the  ardour  of  the  cause.  '  In  years  to  come  Coole  will 
be  historic,  later  still,  it  will  be  legendary,  a  sort  of 
Minstrelburg,  the  home  of  the  Bell  Branch  Singers.  .  .  . 
We  shall  all  become  folk-lore  in  time  to  come,  Finns  and 
Diarmuids  and  Usheens,  every  one  of  us.' 

What  collaboration  was  possible  ?  I  do  not  propose  to 
insert  here  a  character  of  Mr.  Yeats,  for  a  whole  book 
would  be  wanted.  Who  doubts  his  genius,  his  yet  more 
eminent  skill  in  the  craft  of  words,  by  which  even  faint 
thoughts  and  fading  imaginations  may  be  dressed  in 
beauty  }  Extravagances  have  been  uttered  in  his  honour, 
but  who  does  not  excuse  them  by  saying,  He  is  a 
delightful  artist }  The  most  froward  of  critics  would  do 
no  more  than  hint  a  fault  and  disguise  an  uncertain  dis- 
like ;  and  very  few  would  listen.  Mr.  Yeats  has  this  in 
common  with  greater  writers — that  his  genius  is  proven  by 
its  inconstancy.  Talent  is  constant,  and  the  mere  craft 
of  language  may  be  unvarying;  but  Mr.  Yeats's  gift  is 
uncertain  and  incalculable,  sometimes  abased  to  a  mere 
decadence,  as  in  the  lyrics  upon  a  certain  lady  who  was 
dying  :— 

'  Propped  upon  pillows,  rouge  on  the  pallor  of  her  face. 
She  would  not  have  us  sad  because  she  is  lying  there. 
And  when  she  meets  our  gaze  her  eyes  are  laughter  lit. 
Her  speech  a  wicked  tale  that  we  may  vie  with  her. 


142 

Matching  our  broken-hearted  wit  against  her  wit. 
Thinking  of  Saints  and  of  Petronius  Arbiter ' 

sometimes  lifting  upon  stronger  wings  and  sounding  the 
purer  music  of  how  many  lyrics  of  his  earlier  and  later 
periods  alike.  Nor  in  verse  alone  has  his  genius  shone 
brightly,  for  there  are  certain  essays  and  that  too-brief 
fragment  of  autobiography.  Reveries  Over  Childhood  and 
Youth,  His  genius  is  truly  individual  and  lonely  in  its 
finest  exercise,  owing  little  or  nothing  to  school  or 
influence  ;  only  his  weaker  writings  may  be  assigned  to 
the  influence  of  others.  But  I  think  that  if  we  could  not 
have  Mr.  Yeats' s  work  without  having  the  Irish  Literary 
Theatre — the  largest  of  concessions  to  the  improbable — 
the  Irish  Literary  Theatre  would  yet  have  been  justified 
abundantly.  Nor  may  we  forget  the  influence  which  Mr. 
Yeats  in  turn  exercised  on  his  friend,  who  now,  for  all  his 
asperities,  freely  admits  his  debt ;  for  he  never  shrinks 
from  acknowledging  what  he  owes  to  others  who  have 
helped  him  to  write  a  little  better. — He  was  an  excellent 
schoolmaster  for  me,  he  will  say  of  Mr.  Yeats. 

But  the  conjunction  of  genius  with  genius  is  perilous, 
and  what  collaboration  was  possible  between  Moore  and  Mr. 
Yeats  ^  Collaboration  ? —  '  Feeling  like  a  swordsman  that 
meets  for  the  first  time  a  redoubtable  rival,  I  reminded 
Yeats  that  in  his  last  letter  he  had  said  we  must  decide  in 
what  language  the  play  should  be  written — not  whether  it 
should  be  written  in  English  or  in  Irish  (neither  of  us 
knew  Irish),  but  in  what  style.'  But  Mr.  Yeats  also  was  a 
swordsman  and  too  wise  to  seek  a  bubble  reputation.  Of 
what  good  will  your  dialogue  be  to  me,  he  retorted,  if  it  is 
written  in  the  language  of  Esther  Waters  ?  Words  followed 
upon  the  use  of  dialogue.  Moore  admits  his  own  regret 
that  he  should  have  suggested  to  his  rival  so  hazardous  an 
experiment  as  a  peasant  Grania  ?  We're  writing  an  heroic 
play,  he  cried,  and  dialogue  would  render  heroes  farcical, 


143 

for  folk  is  always  farce  and  it  is  not  (he  subtly  muses,  I 
presume,  long  after  this  reconstructed  duel  took  place) — 
it  is  not  until  the  language  has  been  strained  through 
many  brilliant  minds  that  tragedy  can  be  written  in  it. 
Surely  the  play  had  better  be  written  in  the  language  ot 
the  Bible. 

And  once  again,  what  collaboration  was  possible,  since 
Moore  argued  that  they  would  have  to  begin  by  writing  a 
dictionary  of  the  words  that  may  not  be  used  and  the 
ideas  that  may  not  be  introduced  ?  Every  writer  has  his 
own  catalogue  of  inhibited  words,  his  own  rhythm,  his 
own  voice,  his  own  ear;  and  working  with  another  the 
most  that  can  be  looked  for  is  an  antiphonal  concord.  But 
the  inhibitions  proposed  for  joint  observance  were  not 
limited  to  ideas  and  words,  for  Moore  protests  against  the 
poet's  wish  that  he  should  not  waste  time  by  writing 
descriptions  of  Nature. — Is  it  not  amusing,  for  who  more 
winningly  than  Moore  can  write  descriptions  of  Nature  ? 
and  to  forfeit  that  exercise  was  a  hardy  request.  Primitive 
man,  Mr.  Yeats  had  said,  did  not  look  at  trees  for  beauty 
but  for  use,  but  Moore  contends  that  it  is  safer  to  assume 
that  primitive  man  thought  and  felt  much  as  we  do ;  and 
again  the  argument  turned  upon  the  virtues  of  dialect. 
'But,  Yeats,  a  play  cannot  be  written  in  dialect, 
nor  do  I  think  it  can  be  written  by  turning  common 
phrases  which  rise  up  into  the  mind  into  uncommon 
phrases  ;  *  and  he  adds  a  sigh,  for  it  seemed  he  had  come 
to  Coole  upon  a  fruitless  errand — that  he  would  never  be 
able  to  write  Diarmuid  and  Grania  in  collaboration  with 
Mr.  Yeats. 

Many  pleasant  hours,  nevertheless,  passed  in  quarrelling 
as  to  how  the  play  should  be  written.  Lady  Gregory, 
Moore  remembers,  coming  to  their  help  with  a  suggestion 
that  one  should  write  the  play  and  the  other  go  over  it ; 
while  they  were  together  they  should  confine  themselves 


144 

to  the  construction  of  the  play.  To  this  important  aspect 
Mr.  Yeats  contributed  his  theories,  saying  that  the  first 
act  of  every  good  play  is  horizontal,  the  second  perpendi- 
cular, while  the  third  is  circular,  being  a  return  to  the  first 
theme.  There,  he  exclaimed,  as  he  recounted  the  story  of 
the  first  act — there  we  have  the  horizontal ;  you  see  how  it 
extends  from  right  to  left.  But  Moore,  who  is  a  man  of 
letters  rather  than  an  aesthetician,  wondered  if  it  did  not 
extend  from  left  to  right ;  and  when  the  second  act  was 
likewise  explained  and  termed  perpendicular,  it  became 
necessary  for  Lady  Gregory  to  beseech  him  to  be  calm. 
No  comedy  conceived  by  the  novelist  alone  or  by  the  poet 
alone  might  be  half  so  perfect  as  the  comedy  issuing  from 
their  fond  and  vain  co-operation;  Sterne  himself  hardly 
created  a  situation  more  humorous.  A  desperate  suggestion 
that  Moore  should  write  the  play  in  French  was  seized  on 
by  the  others,  resulting  in  a  midnight  proposal  that  his 
French  text  should  be  translated  into  the  English  of  Lady 
Gregory,  the  English  translated  into  Irish,  and  the  Irish 
re-translated  into  English — for  Mr.  Yeats  to  put  style  upon 
it.  Strange  are  the  innocencies  of  genius,  stranger  is  the 
fact  that  Moore  should  have  left  England  to  do  his  part 
by  writing  the  French  text.  Hail  and  Farewell  contains  a 
piece  of  his  French  dialogue,  and  his  own  comment  that 
a  writer  can  think,  but  not  think  profoundly,  in  a  foreign 
language.  Only  by  printing  a  specimen  of  this  dialogue 
could  he  hope  to  convince  anybody  that  two  such  literary 
lunatics  as  Mr.  Yeats  and  himself  existed  contemporaneously 
in  Ireland.  What  was  all  this  nonsense  that  kept  on 
drumming  in  his  head  about  the  Irish  language  and  Anglo- 
Irish  }  Vexed  and  humiliated,  he  suddenly  left  France 
and  returned  to  England.  As  for  Mr.  Yeats,  he  announced 
Diarmuid  and  Grania  as  a  prose  play  in  three  acts  by 
Moore  and  himself,  founded  on  that  most  famous  of  all 
Irish  stories,  the  story  of  the  lovers  whose  beds  were  the 
cromlechs.     He  believed  there  was  nothing  in  it  to  offend 


145 

anybody,  but  made  no  promises.  '  We  thought  our  plays 
inoffensive  last  year  and  the  year  before,  but  we  were 
accused  the  one  year  of  sedition,  and  the  other  of  heresy. 
We  await  the  next  accusation  with  a  cheerful  curiosity.' 
When  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre  wound  up  its  three  years 
of  experience  with  the  production  of  this  strangely 
begotten  play,  he  recorded  the  large  audiences  which  it 
drew,  but  acknowledged  that  it  was  a  good  deal  blamed  by 
those  who  knew  only  the  modern  text  of  the  legend  ;  the 
version  used  in  Diarmuid  and  Grania  being  fully  justified 
by  Irish  and  Scottish  folk-lore  and  certain  early  Irish 
texts.  .  .  .  Extravagant  as  the  whole  episode  appears,  I 
wonder  if  it  might  not  have  been  yet  more  amusing  had 
Mr.  Yeats  followed  this  relation  with  his  own. 

Moore's  unpremeditated  return  to  London  (as  we  are  to 
presume  it  to  have  been)  was  really  a  return  like  that 
of  a  wanderer  to  the  fold;  for  at  once  the  noise  of  the 
South  African  War  reached  him  again,  and  his  thoughts 
were  resolved  into  a  prayer  for  the  humiliation  of  the 
oppressors  of  that  distant  southern  Eire — a  prayer  not  very 
likely  to  be  answered,  and  yet  answered.  Far  off  now  is 
the  struggle  of  De  Wet.  It  seems  that  while  it  was  drawing 
near  to  an  end,  Moore  received  letters  telling  him  that 
quarter  would  not  be  given  if  a  token  of  surrender  were 
raised.  Too  horrible !  he  cried,  and  tried  to  publish  the 
plot ;  but  London  newspapers  refused.  Only  in  Ireland, 
then,  was  there  any  sense  of  right,  and  so  he  hastened  to 
Dublin,  dictated  the  story  to  the  editor  of  the  Freemaris 
Journal,  and  at  length  drew  from  the  military  authorities 
a  repudiation  of  the  'plot.* 

One  virtue  of  Moore's  great  romantic  autobiography  is 
that  it  displays  the  surface  as  well  as  discovers  the  depths 
of  his  mind;  and  he  has  not  scrupled  to  attribute  to 
himself  a  pettiness  which  makes  his  righteousness  appear 
merely  self-righteousness.     He  believed  himself,  he  says. 


146 

to  be  God's  instrument  for  saving  an  honest  Protestant 
people  from  the  bad  designs  of  a  Jew  and  a  nail-maker. 
The  dramatic  instinct,  you  will  say,  had  not  decayed ; 
Ireland's  apostle  had  become  the  Boer's  saviour,  and  he 
saw  himself  as  protagonist  in  a  spiritual  war.  Hence  his 
mind  was  prepared  like  St.  Paul's  on  that  journey  which 
was  so  strongly  to  impress  the  author  of  The  Brook  Kerith. 
As  he  walked  towards  Chelsea  it  seemed  that  a  presence 
followed  him  ;  a  thin  sensation  at  first,  but  deepening 
every  moment  until  he  dared  not  look  behind  lest  he 
should  see  something  which  was  not  of  this  world.  In  a 
devout  coUectedness  he  heard  an  external  voice  behind 
him  saying  distinctly,  Go  to  Ireland  !  but  when  he  looked 
there  was  no  one  near.  And  again  the  voice  sounded  as 
he  walked  on.  It  is  the  third  instance  of  the  echo-augury 
in  his  reconstructed  life,  but  the  first  in  which  the  call 
was  moral  and  not  aesthetic.  Was  it  for  that  reason  that 
he  questioned  the  voice  ?  Hard  it  seemed  to  abandon  his 
project  of  going  to  live  in  what  he  thought  was  his  own 
country,  France ;  but  the  command  was  now  repeated. 
Go  to  Ireland  I  Go  to  Ireland  !  the  voice  speaking  within 
five  or  six  inches  of  his  ear,  and  so  distinctly  that  his  hand 
was  stretched  out  to  the  speaker.  A  few  weeks  later, 
being  still  disobedient  to  the  heavenly  charge,  the 
'  presence  *  seemed  to  fill  his  room  and  overpower  him ;  as 
he  strove  to  resist,  it  forced  him  to  his  knees  and  he  could 
not  help  praying.  Doubt  was  no  longer  possible,  he  had 
been  summoned  to  Ireland. 

Under  Providence,  then,  De  Wet  and  Kitchener  and 
Chamberlain  had  conspired  for  the  sake  not  of  South 
Africa  but  of  Ireland ;  their  strife,  blind  and  uninformed, 
had  resulted  in  the  appointment  of  a  Celtic  Messiah  ;  they 
were  the  prime  authors — if  in  this  dark,  mysterious  world 
any  can  be  called  prime  authors — of  Hail  and  Farewell, 
a  book  not  to  be  written  until  years  had  elapsed,  for  the 
art  of  writing  it  was  not  yet  discovered.     The  stars  in 


147 

their  courses  never  poured  stranger  influence  upon  the 
wandering  heaps  that  flow  between  the  shores  of  men, 
than  at  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  century,  when  the 
conquest  of  a  people  was  needed  to  send  a  writer  to 
Ireland  to  beget  a  masterpiece  of  imaginative  art.  Nor 
have  they  often  been  kinder  to  letters  than  when  they 
permitted  that  echo-augury  to  be  repeated,  so  providing 
a  full  and  perfect  close  to  the  first  volume  of  this 
autobiography. 

His  tardy  response  to  the  bidding  was  complete  and 
uncalculating — he  himself  tells  of  the  difficulties  he 
became  involved  in  before  he  was  able  to  disappear 
from  London  and  emerge  like  a  new- washed  orb  from  the 
Irish  Sea;  and  the  Irish  difficulties  seemed  as  great  as 
the  English,  for  he  had  almost  as  much  trouble  in  finding 
a  new  habitation  as  in  leaving  the  old  one.  The  search 
is  made  the  occasion  of  a  study  of  A.  E.,  that  kindly, 
whimsical,  Moorish  creation,  about  whom  our  author  loves 
to  group  his  fancies,  speaking  of  him  now  as  a  child  speaks 
of  his  father,  now  as  a  father  of  a  loved  child,  and  always 
with  that  affection  which  we  bestow  upon  slightly  diminu- 
tive and  precious  things.  To  A.  E.  he  confides  his 
enthusiasms  and  disappointments : — Nobody  wanted  him 
— why  had  he  come  to  Dublin?  He  had  hoped  for  a 
welcome,  without  bonfires  and  banners,  but  not  without 
some  appreciation  of  his  sacrifice  ;  and  once  again  his  hope 
was  rain. 

What  was  that  sacrifice  ?  He  tells  the  story  of  Whistler 
saying  to  him,  years  before — I  suppose  nothing  matters 
to  you  but  your  writing.  ^  His  words  went  to  the  bottom 
of  my  soul,  frightening  me;  and  I  have  asked  myself, 
again  and  again,  if  I  were  capable  of  sacrificing  brother, 
sister,  mother,  fortune,  friend,  for  a  work  of  art.  .  .  .  One 
is  near  madness  when  nothing  really  matters  but  one's 
work.*     It  was  a  lucid  madness,  and  a  lucid  madness  it 


148 

has  remained ;  and  if  we  accept  that  term  madness,  we 
must  always  emphasize  the  qualification.  He  thought  the 
Boer  War  disproved  Whistler's  charge,  but  Hail  and  Fare- 
well shows  the  height  and  the  depth,  the  length  and  the 
breadth  of  his  renunciation,  and  how  secure  the  love  of 
letters  remained, — Why  had  he  come  to  Ireland  ?  The 
lack  of  welcome  disturbed  his  faith,  for  if  England  was 
hateful,  Ireland  was  somewhat  repugnant. 

Again  and  again  he  turns  to  A.  E.,  to  the  A.  E.  of  his 
quick  invention,  often  to  share  his  joys,  often  to  banish 
his  doubts,  but  most  often  to  answer  his  arguments. 
*  When  he  left  me,  a  certain  mental  sweetness  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  the  air.'  A.  E.  tempted  him  to  recount 
the  strange  circumstances  of  his  call  to  Ireland,  and 
affirmed  that  the  gods  that  inspired  Moore's  return  to 
Ireland  were  not  Asiatic  ;  and  talking  of  local  gods  and  of 
the  Druids,  A.  E.  heard  his  friend  proposing  that  they 
should  go  forth  together  and  preach  the  Danaan  divinities 
— A.  E.  as  Paul,  and  himself  as  Luke  to  take  down  Paul's 
words.  '  It  would  be  your  own  thoughts,  my  dear  Moore, 
that  you  would  be  reporting,  not  mine,'  was  the  acute 
reply.  But  there  is  no  unkindness  in  Moore's  long, 
lingering  regard  of  A.  E.  ;  indeed  the  cunning  elaboration 
that  forms  the  portrait  of  his  friend  presents  the  subject 
much  as  a  '  figure  in  a  carpet.'  More  truly  yet  might  it 
be  said  that  in  Moore's  eyes  A.  E.  is  like  the  prized  carpet, 
as  real  as  the  Aubusson,  as  finely  proportioned,  as  subtly 
hued,  and  almost  as  fondly  gazed  upon  by  the  eyes  of 
ownership.  There  is  something  wonderful  in  the  art  that 
can  charge  a  portrait  with  such  opposites — with  invention 
and  verisimilitude,  romance  and  literality,  making  it  at 
once  an  image  of  the  subject  and  a  reflection  of  the  artist. 
It  is  A.  E.  who  listens,  or  is  presumed  to  listen,  to  Moore's 
speculation  upon  the  Druids  and  the  Renaissance,  A.  E. 
who  answers  concerning  everything,  saying  at  one  moment. 
Admire  the  bridge  without  troubling  yourself  as  to  what 


149 

its  fate  will  be  when  you  are  gone  ;  and  at  another.  Men 
knew  great  truths  thousands  of  years  ago,  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  these  truths  are  returning.  .  .  .  Moore  does 
not  invent  out  of  nothing ;  he  develops,  and  brings  his 
oaks  from  acorns,  his  A.  E.  from  what  his  eye  has  seen, 
his  ear  heard,  and  his  unresting  imagination  rained  its 
seasons  upon.  In  his  memories  of  A.  E.,  he  says,  there 
must  be  so  much  of  himself,  that  he  hesitates  to  attribute 
some  of  these  reminiscent  phrases  to  his  friend ;  such  as, 
for  example, '  The  folk-tales  of  Connaught  have  ever  lain 
nearer  to  the  hearts  of  the  people  than  those  of  Galilee.' 
A.  E.,  it  is  recorded,  floating  as  easily  above  lowlier  minds 
as  did  Coleridge  when  Hazlitt  heard  him  (he,  too, 
entranced),  finished  a  wonderful  evening  by  drawing  a 
portrait  of  Moore — '  clearly  the  work  of  one  who  has  been 
with  the  Gods,  for  in  it  my  hair  is  hyacin thine,  and  my 
eyes  are  full  of  holy  light.' 

It  may  be,  he  admits,  that  he  is  caricaturing  A.  E.,  as  he 
proceeds  to  sharpen  the  outline  and  deepen  the  shadows  : 
but  A.  E.  remains  the  one  of  all  his  friends  whose  spirit 
burns  with  the  purest  and  most  constant  energy,  giving 
the  simplest  of  all  light  amid  the  confusions  which  un- 
happily make  up — I  had  almost  said  compose — national 
aspirations  in  Ireland.  Moore  does  net  laugh  at  A.  E.,  he 
does  not  measure  or  question  him,  but  accepts  and  admires. 
Scruples  of  conscience  are  his  speciality,  he  admits  with  an 
epicurean  smile  ;  but  he  does  not  look  for  them  in  that 
clear  and  unhaunted  nature.  He  finds  them  in  Gill,  who 
seems  to  have  been  flashed  into  visibility  in  order  to  give 
substance  to  the  mistrust  which  so  soon  supplanted  the 
first  enthusiasm  for  Cathleen  ni  Houlihan.  Should  Gill 
accept  office  under  the  English  Government  ?  '  Gill 
should  have  consulted  me,  for  he  would  have  gotten  from 
me  the  advice  that  would  have  been  agreeable  to  him ;  * 
but  men  do  not  consult  their  friends  when  their  deter- 
mination is  to  walk  the  thorny  path.     I  need  not  remind 


150 

the  reader  that  Gill  is  the  target  for  those  swift  and  sharp 
arrows  which  Moore  shoots  with  faultless  accuracy,  if  not 
always  with  perfect  coolness.  He  delights  in  displaying 
in  Gill  the  follies  and  vanities  of  human  nature — follies 
and  vanities  so  numerous,  so  unmercifully  displayed,  that 
you  wonder  that  a  single  head  can  contain  them  all,  yet 
never  wonder  long  enough  to  question  the  consistency  ot 
the  imaginary  portrait.  What  was  it,  do  you  ask,  that 
provoked  this  subtle  constructive  surgery  ?  I  cannot  tell 
— a  physical  antipathy,  perhaps,  the  first  sight  of  the 
beard  which  brushes  so  many  pages  of  Hail  and  Farewell. 
I  will  not  plunge  into  the  history  of  the  Irish  Renaissance, 
and  only  ask  myself  whether  it  is  not  obscurely  necessary 
that  a  Renaissance  bring  with  it  offences  of  one  kind  and 
another  ;  in  one  country  offences  against  morals,  in  another 
offences  against  manners.  My  concern  is  the  simple  one 
of  tracing  the  character,  not  of  A.  E.  or  Gill,  but  of  the 
artist  who  has  composed  their  effigies,  and  of  the  influence 
upon  him  of  long  acquaintance  with  the  particular  stars 
of  that  now  darkened  firmament.  Hail  and  Farewell  is 
remarkable  in  its  devotion  to  an  antipathy.  It  was  not 
published  until  some  time  after  Moore's  sojourn  in  Ireland 
was  over,  and  to  few  men  is  it  given  to  nurse  either  their 
admiration  or  their  contempt  with  such  perfect  success  as 
he  achieves.  Admiration  cools,  gods  are  dethroned  or 
diminished  in  glory,  and  the  contempt  which  we  feel  one 
year  fades  to  indifference  the  next ;  but  Moore's  admiration 
of  A.  E.  and  his  manifest  affection  for  Edward  Martyn  do 
not  perceptibly  dwindle,  nor  does  time  rob  him  of  his  con- 
tempt for  others.  Men  are  sometimes  ashamed  of  an 
overweighted  dislike ;  but  Moore  has  avowed  his  desire 
not  to  conceal  or  be  ashamed  of  anything,  no,  not  even  of 
the  touch  of  inhumanity  which  gives  a  final  salience  to  his 
amazing  inventions. 

This  portrait  of  Gill,  to  take  the  chief  instance,  is  a 
portrait  of  one  Irishman  by  another,  and  the  artist  has 


151 

genius  to  speed  him.  Gill,  too,  gives  him  opportunities, 
which  had  to  be  found  somewhere,  of  reflections  upon 
the  personalities  which  made  the  Celtic  Renaissance 
conspicuous  and  pathetic ;  the  opportunity,  for  instance, 
of  saying  that  the  Celt  is  so  ineffectual  because  his 
dreams  go  one  way  and  his  actions  go  another.  Every 
race  produces  more  Gills  than  Davitts;  and  when,  he 
proceeds,  in  1901  he  went  to  live  in  Ireland,  he  found 
Gill  the  centre  of  the  Irish  Literary  and  Agricultural 
Party,  and  looked  on  as  the  one  man  who  could  weather 
the  political  peril.  *  A  cheerful,  superficial  nature  ! '  Some 
men,  he  says,  in  speaking  of  Gill,  spend  their  lives 
watching  bees  or  ants,  noting  down  the  habits  of  these 
insects  ;  his  own  pleasure  is  to  watch  the  human  mind, 
noting  how  unselfish  instincts  rise  to  the  surface  and  sink 
back  again  ;  and  so  he  watches  this  kindly-tempered  man 
who  had  floated  down  the  tide  of  casual  ideas  into  the 
harbour  of  thirteen  hundred  a  year.  Moore  sees  himself 
as  sacrificed  for  Cathleen  ni  Houlihan,  again  and  again 
playing  with  that  attractive  theme;  and  Gill  had  the 
satisfaction,  perhaps  more  permanent  and  also  more  per- 
plexing, of  seeing  himself  as  a  sacrifice  to  Moore's  art. 
But  it  was  an  involuntary  sacrifice,  since  few  who  are 
not  men  of  genius  can  bear  to  look  ridiculous. 

Gentle  enough,  however,  is  the  earlier  treatment  of 
Gill  in  comparison  with  that  chapter  of  Vale  in  which 
Gill  and  Plunkett  are  joined  in  martyrdom  for  the  pur- 
poses of  this  matchless  entomologist.  Moore  complains 
that  others  have  complained  that  instead  of  creating  such 
characters  as  Esther  Waters  and  Dick  Lennox,  he  has 
wasted  himself  in  mere  portrait-painting  of  his  friends ; 
and  he  answers  that  we  all  use  models,  and  that  he 
used  models  for  Esther  Waters  and  Dick  Lennox.  The 
models  are  presented  for  intelligent  study,  and  the  artist 
must  use  them ;  and  has  not  Flaubert  presented  models 
for  Moore's  use  ?     When  he  wrote  Bouvard  and  Pecuchet 


152 

he  thought  he  was  creating,  but  he  was  really  giving  new 
names  to  Nature's  own  creations,  Plunkett  and  Gill. 

Our  novelist,  it  seems,  was  interested  in  a  Co-operative 
Egg  Society,  which  his  brother  had  prompted  Plunkett  to 
establish,  and  he  wanted  to  discuss  the  co-operative  egg 
when  he  met  Plunkett ;  finding,  however,  that  nothing 
bored  him  so  much  as  detail  and  that,  like  every  other 
Irishman,  he  loved  dreaming.  But  the  dreams  of  Plun- 
kett and  Gill  were  influential,  for  a  substantial  Govern- 
ment grant  was  obtained,  in  order  to  found  a  Department 
of  Agriculture  and  Art  in  Ireland ;  and  it  is  at  this  point 
that  the  dreamers  are  invested  with  the  mask  of  Flaubert's 
types. — It  is  thirty  years,  says  Moore,  since  he  read  Bou- 
vard  and  Pecuchet,  but  his  unscrupling  study  of  his  friends 
revives  his  memory  of  that  masterpiece,  and  he  proceeds 
with  the  tenderness  of  Fabre  towards  a  spider,  or  a  spider 
towards  two  flies,  in  the  task  of  re-identifying  or  re-in- 
carnating the  French  writer's  conception.  .  .  .  Flaubert, 
says  our  novelist,  had  he  seen  what  I  see,  would  have 
murmured  regretfully,  I  have  been  anticipated  ;  Plunkett 
and  Gill  have  transferred  dreams  into  real  life.  The 
adventure  of  the  calf  that  died,  the  adventure  of  the 
Ballina  shoe  factory,  the  Gal  way  oyster-beds,  the  piers, 
the  eggs,  the  cheese,  and — consummation  of  inestimable 
folly ! — the  adventure  of  Asses  in  Ireland,  all  these  are 
briefly  recited  amid  such  comments  as,  ^  They  found  con- 
solation in  the  thought  that  experimentation  is  the  source 
of  all  knowledge '  ;  and  '  Pecuchet  hesitated,  with  his 
usual  instinct  for  compromise.'  I  dare  not  attempt  to 
select  the  most  exquisite  of  all  the  exquisite  touches  of 
ungentle  mockery  which  make  Vale  unforgettable — it  is 
not  for  me  to  say  unforgivable  also ;  even  to  a  generation 
that  has  won  a  great  war  and  discovered  the  cost  after- 
wards, these  incidents  are  astonishing.  The  justice  of  the 
satire  may  be  most  properly  questioned  by  those  concerned 
in  the  development  of  the  Co-operative  Society  with  which 


153 

Sir  Horace  Plunkett  has  been  so  honourably  associated. 
But  whether  it  is  questioned  or  not,  this  chapter  illustrates 
more  than  any  other  the  perfect  detachment  which  our 
author  succeeded  in  cultivating  until  he  had  become  all 
eyes  for  others'  humours  and  weaknesses,  all  ears  to  every 
echo,  and  all  ice  to  every  little  naked  imp  of  pity.  This 
disillusionment,  disharmonization,  disintegration — call  it 
what  you  will — was  a  gradual  process,  hastened  by  certain 
antipathies,  retarded  by  obstinate  affections,  but  slowly 
going  on  until  he  found  himself  simply  out  of  humour 
with  Ireland.  The  process  embraced  most  of  the  men 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  and  thinking  about,  and 
the  forbearance  of  the  injured  would  surely  have  been 
impossible  had  Hail  and  Farewell  been  a  less  perfectly 
wrought  piece  of  imaginative  art.  Generosity  and  a 
love  of  English  literature  may  even  have  persuaded 
Dr.  Hyde  to  pardon  such  a  sentence  as  this  that  tells 
of  the  anticipated  disappearance  of  the  Gaelic  League, 
if  not  the  earlier  sentences  which  it  would  be  too  cruel 
to  repeat  here. 

'It  drifted  back  whence  it  came.  Worn  and 
broken  and  water-logged,  it  drifted  back  to  the 
original  Connemara  bog-hole,  to  sink  under  the 
brown  water  out  of  sight  of  the  quiet  evening  sky, 
unwatched,  unmourned  save  by  dear  Edward,  who 
will  weep  a  few  tears,  I  am  sure,  when  the  last 
bubbles  arise  and  break.' 

It  was  one  day  while  he  was  walking  with  John 
Eglinton  that  Moore  mentioned  his  fancy  for  writing 
a  volume  of  short  stories  about  Irish  life,  and  he  adds 
for  our  information  that  his  search  for  subjects  was 
immediately  rewarded  by  the  theme  of  "The  Wedding 
Gown,"  budded  from  A  Mummer's  Wife ;  the  new  story 
proving  so  pleasant  in  the  eyes  of  a  priest  that  it  was 
translated  into  Irish,  and  thought  by  the  late  Kuno 
Meyer  to    exhale    in  the    Irish   version    a    folk-flavour 


154 

wanting  in  the  English  original.  Other  stories  followed 
and,  like  the  first,  were  printed  in  The  New  Ireland  Review  ; 
but  after  a  while  the  priestly  censorship  of  subjects  for 
that  Review  created  difficulties,  and  those  difficulties 
became  a  grief  to  the  Irish  Turgenev.  Father  Tom 
and  himself,  he  reflects,  had  lain  side  by  side  in  har- 
bour for  a  while ;  but  he  began  to  feel  that  these  stories 
were  drawing  him  away  from  Catholic  Ireland. 

So  liberated,  other  stories  came,  incident  following 
upon  incident,  he  recollects,  with  bewildering  prodigality. 
Thus  the  best  of  the  stories  in  The  Untilled  Field  was 
founded  upon  an  episode  of  the  country,  and  received 
the  title  '  The  Wild  Goose  ' ;  but  at  the  moment  I  do  not 
wish  to  think  of  this  short  story  as  literature  only,  but  as 
indicating  that  deepening  dissent  from  Catholicism  which 
was  to  hasten  our  author's  separation  from  the  leaders  of 
the  Celtic  Renaissance.  He  saw,  through  the  magic  case- 
ment of  this  short  story,  how  impossible  it  was  to  enjoy 
independence  of  body  and  soul  in  Ireland.  ^  They  bring 
their  Catholicism  with  them  wherever  they  go.  .  .  .  Every 
race  gets  the  religion  it  deserves.'  In  his  half-bantering, 
half-serious  way  he  launches  his  perplexity  at  dear  Edward, 
fearing  lest  it  cool  before  it  has  pierced  the  triple  brass  of 
his  friend's  consistency.  The  decline  of  art  was  coincident 
with  the  Union  of  the  Irish  Church  with  Rome,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  deny  that  Irish  Catholics  had  written  very 
little.  Father  Tom  had  admitted  that.  Excited,  and 
standing  as  he  thought  on  the  verge  of  a  great  discovery, 
he  cries.  Which  is  at  fault — the  race  or  Catholicism  }  A 
long  discussion  ensues,  reverting  to  the  dawn  of  recorded 
time  and  ending  with  the  nineteenth  century  and  the 
remark.  How  strange  that  nobody  should  have  seen  before 
that  Catholicism  is  an  intellectual  desert ! — How  often, 
let  me  add,  has  it  happened  that  one  has  waked  in  early 
morning,  with  a  remnant  of  a  dream  in  one's  head  or  eyes, 
a  half-formed  vision ;  and  in  that  delicious  ferment  of  the 


155 

brain  it  has  seemed  that  the  greatest  conceptions  of  the 
imaginative  world  are  about  to  be  captured  and  confined 
to  verse  or  prose.  The  dream  fades,  the  vision  clouds, 
excitement  w^anes,  and  the  aspect  of  the  world  is  common 
again.  With  such  extravagant,  deluding  swiftness  of  mind 
does  Moore  awake  with  his  new  opinion,  excited  by  it  as 
the  dreamer  with  his  dreams.  '  In  Mayo,  almost  in  my 
own  parish,  was  fought  the  most  famous  battle  in  Irish 
legend ;  from  Mayo  came  Davitt,  the  Land  League,  and  a 
new  discovery  which  will  recreate  Ireland.  The  shepherds 
will  fight  hard,  but  the  sword  I  found  in  my  garden  will 
prevail  against  the  crozier,  and  by  degrees  the  parish  priest 
will  pass  away,  like  his  ancestor  the  Druid !  * 

In  default  of  this  salvation  from  faith  it  is  not  merely 
an  intellectual  desert  that  he  foresees,  but  a  depopulated 
Ireland  as  well,  Ned  Carmody's  lament  in  'The  Wild 
Goose '  being  Moore's  own  lament.  The  impulse  which 
had  borne  him  to  Ireland  had  begun  to  shake  when  he 
noticed  that  the  nuns  upon  whose  garden  his  own  garden 
in  Ely  Place  looked  were  gradually  absorbing  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  and  when,  one  day,  in  the  course  of  an  after- 
noon walk,  he  counted  eight  monastic  houses  in  a  single 
small  district  of  South  Dublin,  he  dreamed  of  the  time 
when  all  Dublin  would  be  a  convent.  With  eyes  so 
washed  of  their  sometime  blindness,  he  stared  at  the 
thronging  priests  and  seminarists,  the  great  cathedrals 
and  comfortable  presbyteries,  and  the  newspapers  with 
their  tales  of  a  kind  of  blackmail  levied  by  the  Church 
upon  the  landed  and  landless  alike.  There  was  no 
heresy  iii  Ireland,  and  the  Modernist  movement  won  no 
adherence ;  Ireland,  it  seemed,  was  as  incapable  of  in- 
dependent thought  as  Thibet ;  and  paradoxically  he  calls 
it  an  essentially  unreligious  country,  himself  being  one 
of  the  few  Irishmen  interested  in  religious  questions. 
The  reality  of  his  exasperation  may  be  judged  from  this 
confusion  of  religion  with  religious  discussion.  ...  I  have 


156 

always  felt  like  a  stranger  in  my  own  country,  he  muses, 
in  a  phrase  of  sore  lucidity. 

I  have  remarked  that  it  was  art  that  took  him  to  France 
and  art  (assisted  by  a  h.atred  of  the  English  oppression 
of  a  pious  South  African  people)  that  sent  him  back  to 
Ireland.  And  it  was  clearly  not  in  the  interest  of 
Protestantism,  then,  that  he  hastened  first  to  A.  E. 
(who  accepted  the  discovery  as  commonplace)  and  next 
to  Gill,  with  whom  he  discussed  all  the  possible  reasons 
for  secession  from  Rome,  adding  his  new  reason — 
literature.  And  with  this  postulate  before  them,  Moore 
and  Gill  walked  the  streets  of  the  Celtic  Florence, 
darting  swallow-like  for  Catholic  gnats  up  and  down  the 
stream  of  time.  .  .  .  The  two  whetstones  of  the  mind 
are  sex  and  religious  discussion,  and  we  must  keep  passing 
our  intelligence  up  one  and  down  the  other: — and  so 
pondering  he  decided  for  good  and  all  that  he  owed 
the  preservation  of  his  intelligence  to  his  theological 
interests.  Sex,  it  seemed,  no  longer  counted  as  an 
interest  in  the  urgency  of  this  great  discovery  and 
impending  divorce  from  the  mind  of  his  native  country. 

Of  the  sincerity  of  this  obstinate  questioning  there 
need  be  little  doubt.  He  could  not  keep  his  discovery 
to  himself.  From  Gill  he  hurried  to  Eglinton  with — 
*  My  belief  is  that  Catholic  countries  haven't  produced 
a  book.'  Somewhere  in  Ave  he  had  written,  '  Let  us  be 
content  with  the  theory,  and  refrain  from  collecting  facts 
to  support  it,  for  in  doing  so  we  shall  come  upon  excep- 
tions, and  these  will  have  to  be  explained  away '  ;  but  that 
attitude  would  not  suit  him  now,  and  he  discussed  the 
facts  and  exceptions  untiringly  and  with  such  a  concession 
to  reason  as  to  put  it  precisely  that  ninety-five  per  cent, 
of  the  world's  literature  had  been  produced  by  Pro- 
testants and  Agnostics.  By  literature,  of  course,  he  meant 
literature   excluding   theology  and   mainly   consisting   of 


157 

imaginative  work ;  and,  confirmed  by  all  that  he  had  said 
to  Eglinton,  he  proceeded  to  Martyn,  who  answered  the 
Columbus  of  ideas  with  a  smile — '  What,  another  !  I 
thought  you  had  come  to  the  end  of  them.  Your  first 
Avas  the  naturalistic  novel,  your  second  impressionistic 
painting ' — and  the  third,  retorted  Moore,  was  Martyn's 
plays  and  the  Irish  Renaissance,  which  was  but  a  bubble. 
Of  what  use  is  it  to  change  the  language  of  Ireland,  since 
Catholics  cannot  write  ?  But  when  his  friend  asked, '  What, 
then,  about  your  mission  ? '  Moore  was  overwhelmed ;  it 
seemed  that  his  life  had  been  sacrificed  for  a  bubble. 

After  Martyn,  Meyer.  Plant  an  acorn  in  a  vase  and 
the  oak  must  burst  the  vase  or  become  dwarfed,  and  from 
Meyer  he  obtained  the  support  of  German  literature  ;  and 
concluded  pathetically  that  his  life  was  at  an  end.  He 
had  been  led  to  Ireland  in  the  hope  of  reviving  the 
language,  for  a  new  language  was  required  to  enwomb 
a  new  literature  ;  but  Ireland  would  not  forego  her  super- 
stitions for  the  sake  of  literature,  and  dogma  and  literature 
were  incompatible. 

Justice,  however — that  wilful,  sardonic  deity — demanded 
that  a  Catholic  should  be  heard  in  the  defence  of  Catholi- 
cism ;  and  who  better  than  his  brother  might  defend  it  ? 
'You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  brought  me 
all  the  way  from  Mayo  to  argue  with  you  about  religion  ? ' 
Whereupon  our  author  explained  that  he  had  come  to 
Ireland  (obedient  to  a  heavenly  visitant)  to  help  literature, 
and  if  he  found  that  dogma  and  literature  were  incom- 
patible, he  must  say  so.  Catholics  may  not  speculate,  and 
the  greatest  literature  had  come  out  of  speculation  on  the 
value  of  life.  '  What  I'm  saying  to  you  to-day,'  he  cried, 
'  will  be  written  to-morrow  or  after — I'm  using  you  as  an 
audience.'  It  is  an  exercise  that  he  loves;  even  in  the 
most  simple  and  familiar  conversations  of  Ebury  Street 
the  charmed  visitor  may  suspect  that  he  is  being  used 
as  an  audience. 


158 

We  often  criticize  our  friend,  he  says,  truly  enough, 
and  he  sitting  opposite  to  us,  Httle  thinking  how  he  is 
being  torn  to  pieces ;  but  I  suppose  that  no  one  has 
carried  that  practice  to  such  perfection  as  George  Moore. 
*  There  are  people  of  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  yesterday ; 
and  the  Colonel  is  much  more  of  yesterday  than  of  to-day.' 
He  finds  his  brother  a  subject  for  that  somewhat  icy 
painter  Velasquez,  who  painted  the  true  Catholic  in  all 
his  portraits  of  Philip,  never  failing  to  catch  the  faded, 
empty  Catholic  look.  It  has  been  Moore's  fortune,  and 
ours,  that,  sitting  opposite  his  friends,  he  has  not  simply 
torn  them  to  pieces  but  also  put  them  together  again — 
making  them  different,  perhaps,  but  making  them  certainly 
whole;  no  mere  incredible  collection  of  the  fortuitous, 
but  characters  of  coherence  and  animation,  if  not  of  literal 
likeness.  It  has  been  our  ill-luck,  however,  that  none  of 
his  friends  has  done  this  for  Moore ;  but  in  this  pursuit 
of  an  idea  we  may  catch  something  of  his  superficial  and 
more  of  his  profounder  personality,  and  we  are  helped  by 
that  wonderful  dramatic  candour  which  tells  us  so  much 
of  his  mind  as  well  as  his  art. 

'  The  lamp  burned  brightly  on  the  table,  and  rising 
from  the  arm-chair  to  light  a  cigar,  I  caught  sight 
of  my  face  and  wondered  at  my  anger  against  my 
brother,  a  sort  of  incoherent,  interior  rumbling, 
expressing  itself  in  single  words  and  fragments  of 
sentences.  An  evil  self  seemed  to  be  stirring  within 
me  ;  or  was  it  that  part  of  our  nature  which  lurks  in 
a  distant  corner  of  our  being  and  sometimes  breaks 
its  chain  and  overpowers  the  normal  self  which  we 
are  pleased  to  regard  as  our  true  self.'*  Everyone  has 
experienced  the  sensation  of  spiritual  forces  at  war 
within  himself,  but  does  he  ever  suspect  that  the 
abnormal  self  which  has  come  up  to  the  surface  and 
is  influencing  him  may  be  influencing  him  for  his 
good ;  at  all  events,  for  some  purpose  other  than  the 
generally  received  one — the  desire  to  lead  poor 
human  nature  into  temptation  .'* ' 


159 

With  that  keen,  unrelenting  gaze  he  watches  the 
Colonel,  outward  and  inward  man  together,  while  he 
develops  his  discovery  and  launches  the  fatal  question, 
'  Why  have  your  sons  educated  by  priests  ?  Protestantism  is 
harmless,  for  it  leaves  the  mind  free.'  .  .  .  Such  words 
followed,  according  to  Moore,  that  further  discussion  was 
impossible ;  there  was  but  the  one  phrase — '  It  will  be  a 
great  grief  to  me  if  you  declare  yourself  a  Protestant.' 

But  the  grief  of  one  must  not  cause  another  to  stumble. 
Moore  confides  to  A.  E.,  or  to  the  pages  of  Salve,  the 
quarrel  with  his  brother,  saying  that  the  Colonel  had 
mentioned  accidentally  that  his  grandfather  was  not  a 
Catholic,  and  the  news  that  there  was  only  one  generation 
of  Catholicism  behind  him  came  sweetly  as  the  south 
wind.  He  would  declare  himself  a  Protestant.  But  since 
that  declaration  would  grieve  his  brother,  he  must  leave 
Ireland  as  soon  as  the  lease  of  his  house  expired.  Mean- 
while he  was  kept  out  of  St.  Patrick's  every  Sunday  by 
his  promise  to  the  Colonel,  and  his  fretting  at  this  restric- 
tion was  only  eased  by  receiving  an  invitation  to  stay  with 
friends  in  England ;  this  in  turn  leading  to  his  being 
asked  to  read  the  lessons  in  the  parish  church.  For 
several  weeks  he  read  the  lessons,  and  when  he  returned 
to  Ireland  he  had  acquired  a  superficial  but  real  admiration 
of  the  language  of  the  Bible,  and  resolved  to  read  it 
through  from  beginning  to  end.  His  discovery  of  the 
Bible  he  kept  as  little  to  himself  as  his  discovery  of 
paragraph  and  punctuation :  his  wonder  is  as  instinctive 
and  communicative  as  a  child's.  Pondering  upon  things 
in  the  Old  Testament  that  repelled  him,  for  his  squeamish- 
ness  was  very  considerable,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  to 
read  the  Gospels ;  and  straightway  he  became  indignant 
with  the  teachers  of  the  Gospels  who  had  so  utterly 
neglected  the  great  literary  art  of  the  Founder  of  Chris- 
tianity. I  cannot  at  this  stage  enter  into  a  discussion 
of  Moore's  appreciation  of  the  Bible,  and  I  pass  at  once 


160 

to  his  letter  to  the  Archbishop  in  which  he  announced 
that  since  he  came  to  live  in  Ireland  his  thoughts  had 
been  directed  towards  religion^  and  now  it  appeared  that 
the  purest  form  of  Christianity  was  to  be  found  in  the 
Anglican  rather  than  in  the  Roman  Church ;  how  could 
he  become  a  member  of  the  Anglican  Church  ?  Obviously 
some  special  direction  would  be  necessary  for  the  leader 
of  the  Celtic  Renaissance  who  had  just  been  devastated 
with  a  sense  of  incompatibles,  and  obviously,  too,  he  must 
demand  a  purer  and  aesthetically  more  satisfying  mode  of 
conversion  than  that  by  which  others  had  been  con- 
strained into  the  ranks  of  orthodoxy.  The  common  man, 
he  reminded  himself,  makes  the  same  mess  of  pottage  out 
of  religion  as  he  does  out  of  art.  Moore's  tastes  in  art 
have  never  been  common,  and  as  for  religion,  have  we 
not  the  witness  of  Evelyn  Innes  and  Sister  Teresa  f 

Perhaps  because  of  mere  circumstance,  perhaps  out  of 
wisdom,  perhaps  out  of  simple  perplexity,  the  Archbishop 
referred  our  novelist  to  his  parish  priest.  An  icy  sentence 
was  dropped  by  the  parish  priest  at  the  first  interview — 
'It  is  quite  possible  that  there  is  more  intelligence  in 
Protestantism  than  in  Catholicism,  but  we  are  concerned 
with  spiritual  rather  than  with  aesthetic  truths.'  Wrangling 
about  texts  followed  ;  until  Moore  cried,  /  take  my  stand 
upon  Paul !  but  a  prayer  said  with  the  parish  priest 
melted  all  difficulties,  he  grew  happy,  and  for  a  moment 
did  not  care  whether  the  world  thought  him  a  Protestant 
or  Catholic. 

Only  for  a  moment.  A  review  of  The  Untilled  Field 
upset  him  by  speaking  of  the  author  as  himself  a  Catholic ; 
And  is  this  shame  eternal  ?  he  cried.  Merely  because  his 
father  was  a  Papist  must  he  remain  one?  Enraged,  he 
composed  a  letter  to  the  press,  declaring  his  formal 
passage  from  the  Church  of  Rome  to  the  Church  of 
Ireland,  and  consulted  A.  E.,  not  to  get  his  opinion  but 
only  to  get  his  approval.    The  publication  of  such  a  letter. 


161 

conceived  in  pique  and  brought  forth  in  anger,  was 
unnecessary  to  convince  us  of  the  depth  of  Moore's  divorce 
from  Catholicism  and  the  Irish  Renaissance ;  it  is  used, 
however,  to  mark  the  end  of  Salve  and  the  essential  com- 
pletion also  of  Moore's  romantic  autobiography ;  for  Vale 
adds  little  to  the  inward  story  of  the  ten  years  spent  in 
Ireland.  But  Vale  repeats  and  extends  what  we  have 
heard  already,  and  by  mere  insistence  helps  us  to  see  that 
Moore's  concern  with  Ireland  and  Catholicism  was  not 
idle. 

*  Ever  since  the  day  that  I  strayed  into  my  garden 
and  it  had  been  revealed  to  me  as  I  walked  therein 
that  Catholics  had  not  written  a  book  worth  reading 
since  the  Reforaiation,  my  belief  had  never  faltered 
that  I  was  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  Gods, 
and  that,  their  mighty  purpose  was  the  liberation  ot 
my  country  from  priestcraft.' 

But  how  achieve  it  ?  The  instrument  of  the  Gods  was  no 
preacher,  and  the  artist  in  him  could  not  be  suborned  to 
fashion  the  new  gospel  into  play  or  novel,  until  one  day 
the  form  was  revealed  to  him — it  must  be  autobiography ! 
Truly  an  unusual  form  for  a  sacred  book,  but  a  remem- 
brance of  St.  Paul  sufficed  to  overcome  his  hesitation  ; 
Ave  was  begun  in  the  full  sense  of  his  mission ;  then 
Salve,  following  his  memory  of  a  long  search  for  divinity ; 
and  after  Salve  the  conviction  came  that  the  autobiography 
would  bring  his  long  sojourn  in  Ireland  to  a  close.  For 
would  it  not  be  in  bad  taste  (surprisingly  he  asks)  to 
remain  in  Dublin  and  meet  continually  his  models  in  the 
streets — friends  and  lost  friends,  acquaintances  and  men 
never  more  to  be  acquaintances }  And  far  more  per- 
suasively— Would  not  exile  (even  self-ordained  exile,  as 
we  see  it)  give  the  autobiography  a  final  distinction? 
Never  was  such  self-consciousness  since  Rousseau's,  nor 
was  it  ever  so  well  justified  of  its  children.  The  great 
design  was  to  begin  in  the  Temple  and  end  at  Moore 


162 

Hall ;  but  why  revisit  Moore  Hall  ?  Yet,  since  one  is 
never  sure  of  what  may  be  seen,  and  since  the  book 
wanted  that  particular  conclusion  and  not  another,  and 
since,  again,  the  last  eighty  pages  of  Fale  had  to  be 
wrought  into  something  finer  than  the  first  hundred,  the 
visit  was  paid  and  the  needed  effect  assured.  Another 
advantage — not,  I  think,  an  uncalculated  one — is  that  the 
visit  enables  Moore  to  end  on  a  pleasanter  note,  and  so 
diminish  the  sense  of  acerbity  which  might  else  have  been 
too  plain. 

But  even  in  this  visit  the  religious  question  lies  sword- 
like between  the  affections  of  the  brothers.  The  novelist 
recites  a  proposal  which  he  made  in  the  course  of  this 
visit — that  his  eldest  nephew  should  be  brought  up  a 
Protestant,  and  that  recompense  should  be  secured  to 
him  in  this  world  as  well  as  in  the  next.  Argument 
ensued,  and  was  prolonged  for  the  rest  of  the  visit,  as  it 
is  recalled  in  Fale;  a  visit  of  which  the  chief  satisfaction 
was  the  moment  of  farewell ;  for  he  felt  glad  to  escape 
from  a  wrangle  that  had  become  unendurable. 

'  He  had  said  the  night  before  last  that  we  had 
better  not  see  each  other,  and  though  the  words 
seemed  hard  I  could  not  resist  their  truth.  It  was  a 
relief  to  get  away  from  him.  "Catholics  and  Pro- 
testants don't  mix ;  we  are  never  comfortable  in 
their  society.      We  tell  them  by  a  foolish  ecstasy,  a 

foolishness  in  their  faces  difficult  to  define,  but " 

At  that  moment  the  guard  blew  his  whistle,  the 
train  moved  up  the  platform,  and  the  Colonel  passed 
out  of  my  sight.  "  So  this  is  the  end  of  it  all,  and 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  We  never  knew  it  before,  and 
might  never  have  known  it  if  I  hadn't  come  down  to 
Mayo.  It  was  while  revisiting  the  scenes  of  our 
youth  that  we  discovered  how  hopeless  is  our 
estrangement !  He  thinks,  no  doubt,  that  I  have 
changed  :  we  have  both  changed,  and  the  fault  is 
neither  with  him  nor  with  me." ' 


163 

Yes,  the  thought  seemed  unendurable — but  no  thought 
lasts.  His  mission  in  Ireland  was  over,  and  the  time  for 
leaving  was  come.  And  whither  now — Paris  or  London  ? 
No,  it  could  not  be  Paris,  for  Hail  and  Farewell  must  be 
finished,  cried  once  more  that  mysterious  voice  out  of 
the  circumambient  profundity.  It  was  precisely  between 
Mullingar  and  Dublin  that  he  realized  more  acutely  than 
ever  that  this  task  was  the  cause  of  his  being ;  he  had 
been  led  by  the  hand  like  a  little  child  to  write  it,  but  he 
knew  not  by  whom  he  had  been  led.  And  now  it  was 
borne  in  upon  him  (again  at  whose  bidding  he  knew  not) 
that  a  sacrifice  was  asked  of  him,  and  that  he  must  leave 
friends  and  native  land,  and  even  forego  the  briefly  held 
vision  of  obedient  wife  and  extraordinary  son,  for  the 
sake  of  his  book — a  book  of  liberation.  He  knew  the 
book  to  be  the  turning-point  in  Ireland's  destiny,  yet 
prayed  that  he  might  be  spared  the  pain  of  writing.  But 
no  man  escapes  his  fate.  Something  was  propelling  him 
out  of  Ireland. 

The  sublimation  of  common  causes  and  effects  has 
seldom  reached  a  greater  rarity,  and  perhaps  a  less  than 
supernatural  impulse  would  justify  the  renunciation  so 
loftily  conceived  ;  indeed  we  have  already  glanced  at  a 
humbler  reason,  without  being  struck  with  its  inadequacy. 
He  had  seen  himself  as  the  prophet  of  the  Celtic 
Renaissance,  but  the  fire  had  died  away,  and  as  it  died 
the  new  Florence  collapsed  into  ashes. 

Yet  since  the  faults  of  Hail  and  Farewell  rankle,  and 
spring  from  the  author's  mind  into  which  we  are  looking, 
they  must  not  be  ignored.  Speaking  of  The  Faithful 
Shepherdess,  Lamb  remarks  that  if  Chloe  was  meant  to  set 
off  Clorin  by  contrast,  Fletcher  should  have  known  that 
such  weeds  by  juxtaposition  do  not  set  off,  but  kill 
sweet  flowers.  As  ill-conceived  a  juxtaposition  is  that 
which  Moore  has  arranged  for  certain  amorous  passages  in 


164 

the  third  volume  of  his  trilogy  ;  for  between  conversations 
with  Edward  Martyn  and  the  journey  to  Moore  Hall,  a 
dozen  wanton  pages  occur  in  the  style  of :  '  You  don't  mind, 
darling,  if  I  don't  see  you  to-night  ?     I  prefer  to  tell  you, 

has  asked  me  if  he  might  come  to  my  room ;  I  can't 

well  refuse.  You  don't  mind  ? '  It  is  not  a  stain  that 
spreads,  but  it  is  one  that  does  not  fade,  and  although  the 
author  of  Fale  earns  a  quick  pardon,  the  necessity  for 
pardoning  something  so  puerile  is  resented ;  why,  you 
ask,  why  cannot  he  respect  his  own  art  and  spare  this 
schoolboy  smutching  ?  If  it  be  urged  that  you  must  take 
an  author  as  he  is,  and  not  as  you  would  have  him,  the 
answer  is  simple  : — Moore  as  he  essentially  is  does  not  raise 
this  offence  ;  he  yields  too  readily  to  the  tricksy  spirit  that 
lives  in  whispers  and  furtive  smiles  and  senile  chuckles,  a 
spirit  which  is  not  of  himself,  but  which  he  oddly  fancies 
to  be  a  spirit  of  moral  and  intellectual  liberty.  Tem- 
peramental differences,  however,  will  determine  a  reader's 
attitude  in  the  end,  and  the  only  objection  to  be  urged 
here  is  the  serious  objection  that  such  episodes  as  this, 
in  such  a  book  as  Hail  and  Farewell,  signify  a  brief, 
maddening  failure  of  the  artist. 

The  other  fault  is  also  temperamental  in  origin  and  has 
already  been  noted — a  fondness  for  the  cruellest  cari- 
cature. There  can  be  no  question  of  George  Moore's 
devourmg  zeal  for  art,  when  it  involves  this  general 
sacrifice  of  friends  and  acquaintances.  His  eye  is  acute, 
his  tongue  merciless,  his  judgment  cynical,  and  having 
discovered  his  power  (for  it  was  not  always  apparent  to 
himself)  he  proceeds  to  a  malicious  employment ;  yet  not 
because  of  deliberate  malice,  but  because  he  cannot 
abstain  from  the  sharpest  exercise  of  this  newly-found 
gift.  He  can  admire  his  victims,  but  they  are  his 
victims  none  the  less,  and  he  admires  nothing  so  much 
as  his  own  ingenuity  when  he  looks  again  and  again 
at  the  palpitating  shapes  that  once  were  theirs.     When 


165 

he  wrote  Confessions  oj  a  Young  Man  it  was  himself 
that  he 

*  Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain  ; ' 

not  content  to  show  himself  as  he  was  (a  task  inadequately 
fascinating),  but  rather  as  he  wished  to  appear  ;  but  when 
his  descendant  practised  with  a  defter  hand  upon  others, 
he  forgot  that  the  same  freedom  with  his  material  might 
hardly  be  granted,  and  repeated  the  inventive  process 
with  undisguised  ardour.  Once  again  he  carved  strange 
figures,  figures  without  sweetness,  but  figures  made  out  of 
the  carver's  brain,  as  freakish  in  his  craft  as  Puck,  as 
perverse  as  Caliban.  Never  have  the  privileges  of  friend- 
ship and  the  accidents  of  acquaintance  been  more  richly 
misused  ;  the  fretful  porcupine  has  no  more  painful  quill 
than  that  of  the  author  of  Hail  and  Farewell.  Small 
consolation  is  it  to  the  fantastically  twitching  corpses  that 
Moore  has  displayed  his  own  character  with  at  least  equal 
clearness,  and  breathed  a  morose  or  amused  Non  dolet. 
His  intemperate  candour  is,  I  think,  another  expression 
of  that  unscrupulous  licence  of  speech  of  which  we  are  so 
often  reminded  in  the  present  study.  He  will  say  things 
in  his  own  name,  as  of  himself,  and  he  will  say  things  of 
others,  which  most  men  would  shrink  from  saying  out 
of  mere  prudence  or  generosity;  and  it  is  the  same 
impersonal  wantonness  that  impels  him,  the  same  fear  of 
being  ashamed  or  seeming  ashamed  of  any  thought  or 
imagination  which  comes  into  his  head.  Hail  and  Farewell 
is  romantic  biography  as  well  as  romantic  autobiography, 
and  when  all  is  said,  in  praise  and  in  excuse,  it  remains 
equally  admirable  and  inexcusable.  But  time  will 
diminish  the  offence  without  dulling  the  beauty,  and  the 
trilogy  will  assuredly  remain  a  delight  long  after  most  of 
the  victims  of  it  are  forgotten. 

What  was  his  model  .'*     A  remembrance  of  Sterne,  of 


166 

Heine's  Florentine  Nights,  of  the  wonderful  third  book  of 
Montaigne's  Essays,  of  his  admired  Landor?  Perhaps 
some  or  all  of  these,  moving  beneath  the  rippling 
surface  of  his  mind,  suggested  the  form ;  but  in  truth  it  is 
original — a  wandering  narrative,  now  clouded,  now  clear, 
and  anon  enbowed  by  such  strange  light  as  rejoices  the 
mind  in  looking  seaward  or  landward  from  Howth  Head. 

In  a  preface  to  the  revised  text  of  The  Lake,  Moore  has 
explained  the  origin  of  the  book  and  also  the  origin  of 
The  Untilled  Field;  but  as  we  have  already  glanced  at 
these,  I  need  only  say  that  the  two  books  should  be  read 
as  one,  being  separated  for  the  mysterious  purposes  of  the 
publisher.  The  author's  own  words  upon  this  matter  may 
be  cited  :  '  The  Lake,  too,  in  being  published  in  a  separate 
volume,  lost  a  great  deal  in  range  and  power,  and  criticism 
was  baffled  by  the  division  of  stories  written  at  the  same 
time  and  coming  out  of  the  same  happy  inspiration  .  .  . 
the  return  of  a  man  to  his  native  land,  to  its  people,  to 
memories  hidden  for  years,  forgotten,  but  which  rose 
suddenly  out  of  the  darkness,  like  water  out  of  the  earth 
when  a  spring  is  tapped.' 

These  Irish  stories,  a  village  Odyssey,  which  he  finds 
very  near  to  his  heart,  are  a  witness  to  that  fondness  for 
story-telling  which  has  become  a  chief  characteristic  of 
our  author.  It  is  easy  to  understand  why  that  fondness 
should  especially  enfold  "  So  On  He  Fares,"  for  that  is  a 
story  born  of  a  mood,  a  story  naturally  flowing  from  the 
memory  of  a  face,  voice,  river  or  shade ;  and  indeed  all 
these  stories  clearly  have  the  same  effortless  origin  which 
it  scarcely  needed  Moore's  own  preface  to  suggest.  He  has 
little  to  complain  of  when  he  laments  the  attitude  of  the 
clerical  mind  confronted  by  "In  the  Clay'*  and  "The  Wild 
Goose,"  for  has  he  not  employed  the  powers  of  art  against 
the  powers  of  the  Irish  priesthood  ?  If  his  stories  had  been 
treated  as  Rodney's  clay  was  treated,  he  might  have  been 


167 

angry,  but  he  could  not  have  been  surprised  ;  but  there  is 
something  ingenuous  in  his  complaint,  and  the  instinct  of 
defence  is  a  perpetual  astonishment  to  him.  But  I  need 
not  pursue  the  religious  question : — pleasanter  is  it  to 
turn  to  The  Lake  and  to  remark  that  it  is  the  finest  of  the 
Irish  stories,  and  hitherto  the  only  one  which  the  author 
has  found  it  necessary  to  revise.  No  longer  is  a  con- 
troversial note  dominant;  like  Turgenev,  he  has  allowed 
the  landscape  to  dominate  him,  and  in  this  book  the  beauty, 
the  desire,  the  sorrow,  the  constraint,  are  expressed  not 
simply  in  character  and  incident,  but  also  in  the  lake 
itself,  the  reeds  and  shallows,  the  trees,  the  clouds  resting 
upon  the  trees,  and  the  dark,  slow-heaving  mountains  that 
form  the  sullen  limits  of  this  remote  western  world. 

It  was  by  the  superabundant  kindness  of  Providence 
that  Moore  was  permitted  to  write,  for  justification  of  his 
ten  delusive  years  in  Ireland,  The  Lake  as  well  as  Hail  and 
Farewell.  The  autobiography  may  seem  the  work  of 
one  who  came  to  pray  and  remained  to  scoff,  but  The  Lake 
is  the  work  of  another  who  came  to  scoff  and  remained  to 
pray.  The  friction  with  Catholicism  is  sunken  in  the 
stream  of  beauty  that  flows  tide-like  over  the  narrative, 
washing  the  few  lonely  characters  and  the  lonely  landscape 
with  equal  power  and  sureness.  The  book  sums  up,  not 
an  attitude  to  Church  and  priest,  but  an  attitude  to  man 
and  nature.  That  the  man  in  whom  it  is  presented 
should  be  himself  a  priest  is  immaterial,  for  Moore's  vision 
does  not  centre  upon  priest  and  the  world,  but  upon  flesh 
and  spirit,  desire  and  matter.  Superficially  it  is  the  story 
of  Father  Gogarty,  who  denounces  the  village  school- 
mistress because  she,  a  young  unmarried  girl,  is  about  to 
become  a  mother.  The  girl  is  driven  from  the  parish,  but 
the  priest  finds  that  his  responsibility  does  not  end  with 
his  parish  ;  his  own  act,  and  her  possible  fate,  haunt  him, 
and  not  until  he  learns  that  she  is  safe  in  London  and 
earning  a  living  for  herself  and  her  baby,  not  until  a  frank 


168 

correspondence  takes  place,  does  he  know  why  he  is 
haunted.  It  is  because  he  loves  her ;  but  he  can  never 
see  her  again,  and  his  life  stretches  out  before  him  in  an 
endless  chain  of  crawling,  empty  years.  He  does  not 
know  clearly  whether  the  girl  has  become  the  mistress  of 
her  employer  or  not,  but  as  she  travels  about  the  world 
and  sends  letter  after  letter  to  the  priest,  he  realizes  that 
she  is  living  and  he  is  dead : — 

*  She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 
The  touch  of  earthly  years.* 

But  within  the  superficial  story  there  is  another,  and  the 
lake  itself  is  but  a  symbol.  Something  of  the  eternal  was 
the  girl's  animation,  and  something  of  the  infinite  was  his 
desire  ;  and  thus  the  book  discloses  the  gradual  enfran- 
chisement of  the  spirit  by  the  primary  means  of  a  sensual 
attraction.  The  flesh,  he  writes  in  another  book,  the 
flesh  had  redeemed  the  spirit,  a  thing  which  does  not 
often  happen,  for  it  is  usually  the  spirit  that  redeems  the 
flesh.  That  at  any  rate  is  the  theme,  stated  abstractly ; 
more  vividly,  it  is  the  story  of  the  liberation  of  Oliver 
Gogarty,  the  righteous,  by  Nora  Glynn,  the  sinner.  '  There 
is  a  lake  in  every  man's  heart,  and  he  listens  to  its 
monotonous  whisper  year  after  year,  more  and  more 
attentive,  till  at  last  he  ungirds.'  It  is  in  flying  from 
Ireland  and  the  past  that  he  says  this,  having  already  told 
Nora  in  his  last  letter  to  her,  '  I  thank  you  for  the 
liberation  you  have  brought  me  of  body  and  mind.  I  need 
not  have  added  the  words  "  body  and  mind,"  for  these 
are  not  two  things  but  one  thing.  And  that  is  the  lesson 
I  have  learned.' 

Moore's  reason  for  liking  The  Lake  is  related  to  the  very 
great  difficulty  of  the  telling,  for,  as  he  points  out  in 
the  preface  to  the  revised  text,  the  one  vital  event  in  the 
priest's  life  befell  him  before  the  story  opens;    but  he 


169 

adds  that  the  difficulty  overcome  is  a  joy  to  the  artist,  for 
in  his  conquest  over  the  material  he  draws  nigh  to  his 
idea.  The  idea  of  the  book  is  the  essential  rather  than 
the  daily  life  of  the  priest,  and  he  thinks  there  will  always 
be  a  few  who  will  find  as  much  life  in  The  Lake  as  in 
Esther  Waters;  not  so  wide  a  life,  perhaps,  but  what 
counts  in  art  is  not  width  but  depth.  .  .  .  For  all  the 
difficulty  that  confronted  him.  The  Lake  is  the  simplest 
book  in  the  world  to  read,  and  although  a  large  part  of  it 
takes  the  form  of  letters,  the  device  of  letters  is  accepted 
as  a  natural  thing.  But  he  remained  conscious  of  the 
difficulty,  and  feared  that  even  if  he  had  overcome  it  he 
had  not  achieved  the  final  conquest  of  concealing  it. 
Hence  the  patient  revision,  extending  even  to  names  (as 
though  to  hypnotize  a  reader  who  would  like  to  revert  to 
the  earlier  text),  and  in  some  degree  letters  are  replaced 
by  reveries. 

And  here,  I  think,  the  significance  ot  The  Lake  is 
touched.  It  is  a  beautiful  creation,  of  clear  outline  and 
sparse  colour,  a  large  conception  reduced  to  its  simplest 
and  smallest  elements  ;  but  it  points  to  something  outside 
itself — to  other  books  of  a  new  prose,  expressing  more 
largely  the  very  mood  of  The  Lake.  It  is  the  mood  of 
imaginative  reverie,  and  the  prose  expressing  it  is  the 
discovery  of  George  Moore.  The  Lake  bridges  the  gulf, 
the  deep  and  mysterious  gulf,  between  Sister  Teresa  and 
Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life,  and  leads  you  from  a  scented, 
languid,  babble-echoing  air  to  the  serene  clarities  of  The 
Brook  Kerith  and  Heldise  and  Ahelard.  Plain  enough  is  it 
now  that  the  mood  of  imaginative  reverie  is  the  peculiar 
kingdom  of  our  novelist,  and  the  communication  of  it,  the 
expression  of  its  human  sweetness  and  sadness,  his  peculiar 
office.  The  Lake  is  full  of  instances  of  thought  blended 
with  sense,  and  sense  sunken  in  thought :  '  The  beautiful 
evening  did  not  engage  his  thoughts  and  he  barely 
listened   to  the  cuckoo,  and  altogether  forgot  to   notice 


170 

the  bluebells,  campions  and  cow-parsley ;  and  it  was  not 
until  he  stood  on  the  hilltop  overlooking  the  lake  that 
he  began  to  recover  his  self-possession.  "The  hills  are 
turned  hither  and  thither,  not  all  seen  in  profile,  and  that 
is  why  they  are  so  beautiful."  ' 

But  in  this  simple  and  direct  phrasing  the  mood  has  not 
yet  found  its  perfect  voice.  The  later  books  have  a  new 
cunning  in  which  the  words  follow  the  thought  as  flaws 
follow  the  wind's  feet  over  the  water ;  and  since  style  is 
of  supreme  interest  in  relation  to  the  personality  of  an 
artist,  I  must  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  dedication  of  The 
Lake  to  Mon  cher  Dujardin.  It  is  dedicated  in  recompense 
for  the  larceny  committed  by  Moore  in  using  the  title  of 
Dujardin's  book.  La  Source  du  Fleuve  Chretien,  for  the  title 
of  his  fictitious  Ralph  Ellis's  work,  and  also  in  memory  of 
old  kindness  between  them.  It  was  in  August  1905  that 
this  dedication  was  written,  and  written  in  French,  and  as 
soon  as  it  was  finished  Moore  hastened  to  Dujardin  to 
read  the  dedication  to  his  friend ;  but  when  he  read  : — 

'  A  Valvins,  la  Seine  coule  silencieusement  tout  le 
long  des  berges  plates  et  graciles,  avec  des  peupliers 
alignes ;  comme  ils  sont  tristes  au  printemps,  ces 
peupliers,  surtout  avant  qu'ils  ne  deviennent  verts, 
quand  ils  sont  rougeatres,  poses  contre  un  ciel  gris, 
des  ombres  immobiles  et  ternes  dans  les  eaux,  dix  fois 
tristes  quand  les  hirondelles  volent  bas !  Pour 
expliquer  la  tristesse  de  ce  beau  pays  parseme  de 
chateaux  vides,  hante  par  le  souvenir  des  fetes  d' autre- 
fois, il  faudrait  tout  un  orchestre.  Je  I'entends 
d'abord  sur  les  violons ;  plus  tard  on  ajouterait 
d'autres  instruments,  des  cors  sans  doute ;  mais  pour 
rendre  la  tristesse  de  mon  pauvre  pays  \k  bas  il  ne 
faut  drait  pas  tout  cela.  Je  I'entends  tres  bien  sur 
une  seule  flute  placee  dans  une  ile  entouree  des  eaux 
d'un  lac,  le  joueur  assis  sur  les  vagues  mines  d'un 
reduit  gallois  ou  bien  Normand * 

Dujardin  wondered  what   might   be    the   effect   of  such 


171 

phrasing  in  English,  unconsciously  suggesting  to  his 
bilingual  friend  the  possibility  of  a  prose  that  should  renew 
the  swallow's  flight.  Falling  into  so  favourable  a  soil  the 
suggestion  could  not  die^  but  shot  green  above  the  ground 
and  grew  into  the  shady  and  murmurous  branches  of 
Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life.  It  may  perhaps  be  doubted  if 
a  discovery  is  ever  so  sudden  and  isolated  as  Moore  thinks 
this  discovery  to  have  been  ;  clearly  The  Lake  had  prepared 
his  mind  for  the  seed,  and  had  it  not  been  Dujardin  it 
would  have  been  another.  The  Lake  is  nearer  to  Hail  and 
Farewell  than  to  Evelyn  Innes ;  the  new  mood  itself  begot 
the  new  prose.  The  equal  significance  of  mood  and  prose 
is  not  diminished  by  remembering  that  (with  the  luckless 
exception  of  the  disinterred  Modern  Lover)  The  Lake  is  the 
last  of  Moore's  novels ;  he  was  to  become  an  imaginative 
writer  of  another  kind,  and  the  novel  was  to  thrive  and 
languish  where  we  find  it  now. 

Three  years  after  The  Untilled  Field  came  Memoirs  oj 
My  Dead  Life,  of  which  a  new  English  edition  was  issued 
in  1921  with  such  additions  as  testify  again  to  George 
Moore's  peculiar  passion  for  grafting  fresh  shoots  upon  old 
wood.  The  new  mood  is  expressed  in  the  first  words,  in 
the  whole  of  the  first  scene  entitled  '  Spring  in  London ' — 
a  spring  that  invades  poor  streets  like  a  flood,  and  makes 
the  wretched  rejoice ;  and  as  serenely  beautiful  is  the 
chapter  that  follows,  '  Flowering  Normandy,*  marred  only 
by  such  a  prettification  as  the  river  'looping  up  the 
verdant  landscape  as  if  it  were  a  gown,  running  through  it 
like  a  white  silk  ribbon,  and  over  there  the  green  gown 
disappearing  in  fine  muslin  vapours.*  Already  in  this 
chapter  he  is  essaying  that  favourite  dual  journey,  through 
space  to  Paris,  through  time  to  youth  ;  as  yet  a  not  quite 
perfect  attempt,  but  certainly  forecasting  the  success  ot 
later  pages  and  later  books. 

Among  the  Memoirs  one  might  expect  to  find  what  is  in 


172 

fact  found,  some  clear  echoes  of  earlier  voices ;  and  one  of 
these  is  the  voice  of  an  Irish  waitress,  who  served  in  a 
cafe  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  Her  face  as  well  as  her  voice 
spoke  of  Ireland,  a  face  showing  now  but  a  pale,  deciduous 
beauty.  It  was  of  her,  the  pale  phthisical  Irish  girl,  that 
those  verses  already  cited  from  Confessions  of  a  Young 
Man  were  written,  beginning : — 

'  We  are  alone  !     Listen,  a  little  while. 
And  hear  the  reason  why  your  weary  smile 
And  lute-toned  speaking  are  so  very  sweet.' 

In  a  slightly  different  form  the  same  verses  appear  in 
Pagan  Poems  of  1881 — ^  A  Une  Poitrinaire.'  It  was  after 
a  first  and  last  meeting  that  he  wrote  the  poem,  haunted 
by  the  girl's  previsioned  and  near  death  ;  for  nothing 
could  save  her.  'Twenty  years  have  passed,'  he  writes, 
'and  I  think  of  her  again.  ...  I  bow  my  head  and 
admire  the  romance  of  destiny  which  ordained  that  I, 
who  only  saw  her  once,  should  be  the  last  to  remember 
her.'  And  again,  fifteen  years  later,  he  will  say,  '  I  can 
see  her,  the  poor  little  Irish  waitress,  sitting  where  you 
sit,  as  plainly  as  I  can  see  you. '  Of  impressions  so  brief, 
so  permanent,  is  art  achieved. 

As  simply  rendered,  and  only  less  pathetic,  are  other 
incidents  of  Moore's  reminiscence,  for  he  is  at  times 
deliberately  renewing  fading  memories,  anxious  to  revive 
his  dead  life  and  in  reviving  to  give  it  the  shape  that 
pleases  him  now.  He  cannot  look  upon  Paris  without 
emotion,  for  he  thinks  it  made  him,  and  now  he  exists  in 
two  countries  and  is  furnished  with  two  sets  of  thoughts 
and  emotions,  especially  the  pleasure  of  a  literature  which 
is  his  without  being  wholly  his.  He  calls  himself  the 
youngest  of  the  naturalists,  the  eldest  of  the  symbolists  ; 
a  decayed  terminology,  truly,  in  the  ears  of  1921.  He 
speaks,  in  the  chapter  on  '  Spent  Love,'  of  women  as  the 
legitimate  subject  of  a  man's  thoughts,  saying  that  women 


173 

are  forgotten  when  men  think  about  art,  though  only  for 
a  little  while  ;  but  the  writing  of  these  Memoirs  itself 
proves,  with  the  support  of  so  much  besides,  that  this  is 
untrue.  Again,  he  remarks  that  the  passing  of  things  is 
always  a  moving  subject  for  meditation,  but  the  taking  of 
a  pen  would  destroy  the  pleasure  of  meditation.  He 
would  give  much  for  another  memory,  but  memory  may 
not  be  beckoned. 

As  token,  or  instead  of  another  memory,  you  are  offered 
a  long  episode,  'The  Trovers  of  Orelay.'  It  is  a  curiously 
artificial  piece,  a  garrulous  simulation,  into  which  wanton- 
ness creeps  like  a  cold,  crystal  trickling  of  water.  A 
psycho-analyst  has  lately  decided  (in  The  Erotic  Motive 
in  Literature)  that  it  is  Moore's  habit  to  write  of  his  own 
adventures ;  but  the  credulity  of  certain  psycho-analysts 
is  too  perfect  to  be  followed  by  plain  folk.  Literature, 
to  take  one  definition  of  a  thousand,  is  an  art  of  dis- 
criminations, and  I  cannot  refuse  such  a  primary  dis- 
crimination as  that  between  a  violet  and  an  oyster  for 
smell,  or  Shakespeare  and  Jonson  for  sound ;  nor  can  I 
so  easily  smother  that  other  simple  sense  which  shows 
so  plainly  the  difference  between  what  happened  once  in 
time  and  what  happened  once  in  idea.  It  is  his  crystalline 
coldness  that  robs  our  author's  offence  of  offence,  and 
makes  the  wantonness  of  this  episode  a  purely  intellectual 
adventure.  There  still  remains  the  wonder  why  a  writer 
of  George  Moore's  genius  should  care  to  waste  himself  in 
these  dubious  excursions,  but  I  have  already  touched  this 
recurring  problem  too  freely  to  raise  it  anew  on  this  least 
provocative  occasion. 

The  natural  disorder  of  the  Memoirs  is  an  advantage 
when  the  author,  passing  from  'The  Lovers  of  Orelay,' 
needs  only  a  brief  transition  to  the  beauty  of  '  A  Remem- 
brance,' in  which  familiar  Sussex  country,  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Esther  Waters  and  Spring  DaySj  reminds  you  yet 


174 

again  how  fondly  his  thoughts  revert  to  early  scenes  and 
eddy  round  a  few  clear  island  figures.  He  had  first  met 
the  subject  of  his  reminiscence  when  he  was  only 
eighteen,  and  was  deeply  interested  in  religion  and 
philosophy ;  he  meets  her  later  when  disease  has  touched 
but  not  destroyed  her  beauty: — 

*  She  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  that  love  in 
her  face  which  an  old  woman  feels  for  a  young  man 
who  is  something  less  and  something  more  to  her 
than  a  son.  As  a  flush  of  summer  lingers  in  autumn's 
face,  so  does  a  sensation  of  sex  float  in  such  an  affec- 
tion. There  is  something  strangely  tender  in  the 
yearning  of  the  young  man  for  the  decadent  charms 
of  her  whom  he  regards  as  the  mother  of  his  election, 
and  who,  at  the  same  time,  suggests  to  him  the  girl 
he  would  have  loved  if  time  had  not  robbed  him 
of  her  youth.  There  is  a  waywardness  in  such  an 
affection  that  formal  man  knows  not  of 

^  I  remember  that  day,  for  it  was  the  last  time  I 
saw  her  beautiful.' 

As  exquisite  is  the  closing  passage — '  I  thought  of 
memory  as  a  shrine  where  we  can  worship  without 
shame,  of  friendship,  and  of  the  pure  escapement  it 
offers  us  from  our  natural  instincts.  ...  I  knew  how 
much  more  intense  and  strangely  personal  was  my  love 
for  her  than  the  love  which  that  day  I  saw  the  world 
offering  to  its  creatures.'  Such  phrases,  following  so  soon 
after  '  The  Lovers  of  Orelay,'  make  the  task  of  discrimina- 
tion easy  and  certain. 

The  last  chapter  is  entitled  ^  Resurgam.'  His  mother 
was  dying  and  he  had  been  summoned  to  Ireland,  and 
he  tells  the  story  of  the  hasty  journey  with  a  candour 
which  should  be  met  with  equal  candour  by  the  reader, 
less  accustomed  perhaps  to  looking  into  his  own  mind 
with  an  eye  of  double- vision.  The  long  ride  through  the 
spring-enkindled  country  was  but  a  parable,  for  at  the 


175 

same  time  his  thoughts  were  roaming  back  to  his  own 
springtide.  'There  are  times,'  he  remarks,  'when  the 
present  does  not  exist  at  all,  when  every  mist  is  cleared 
away,  and  the  past  confronts  us  in  naked  outline  ; '  and 
perhaps  that  was  why  it  was  painful  for  him  to  return 
home.  All  he  saw  was  associated  with  his  childhood — 
and  every  association  was  turned  to  pain ;  yet  amid  the 
pain  the  unresting  mind  flows  on  and  he  cries,  'We 
are  so  constituted  that  the  true  and  the  false  overlap 
each  other,  and  so  subtly  that  no  analysis  can  determine 
where  one  ends  and  the  other  begins.'  The  comment  is 
both  true  and  lustrous.  He  seemed  to  have  become  a 
sheer  mentality,  a  buzz  of  thought,  and  it  is  out  of  this 
inward  murmuring  that  his  voice  issues,  now  sighing  and 
now  singing.  He  tells  of  his  prolonged  prayers — to  what 
God  .'* — and  of  his  terror  not  so  much  that  he  might  not 
see  his  mother  alive,  but  that  he  might  arrive  in  time 
to  see  her  die.  Vain  terror  I  '  My  mother  died  certainly 
on  the  most  beautiful  day  I  have  ever  seen,  the  most 
winsome,  the  most  white,  the  most  wanton,  as  full  of 
love  as  a  girl  in  a  lane  who  stops  to  gather  a  spray  ot 
hawthorn.  How  many  times,  like  many  another,  did  I 
wonder  why  death  should  have  come  to  anyone  on  such 
a  bridal-hke  day.'  Sorrow  has  an  ingenious  cunning,  but 
few  would  utter  in  such  words  of  beauty  and  brightness 
an  elegy  upon  one  loved  and  lost,  and  enhance  the  bright- 
ness by  revision  many  years  after.  No  one  dares  to  speak 
his  thoughts  about  such  a  kind  of  incongruity  as  death  in 
the  midst  of  quickening  spring  ;  but  nevertheless  he  goes 
on,  saying  that  the  day  '  moved  slowly  from  afternoon  to 
evening  like  a  bride  hidden  within  a  white  veil,  her  hands 
filled  with  white  blossom ;  but  a  blackbird,  tiny  like  a 
humming-bird,  had  perched  upon  a  bunch  of  blossom, 
and  I  seemed  to  lose  sight  of  the  day  in  the  sinister 
black  speck  that  had  intruded  itself  upon  it.  No  doubt 
I  could  think  of  something  better  were  I  to  set  my  mind 


176 

upon  doing  so^  but  that  is  how  I  thought,  the  day  I  walked 
on  the  lawn  with  my  brothers,  ashamed  and  yet  compelled 
to  talk  of  what  our  lives  had  been  during  the  years  that 
separated  us.* 

Dual  consciousness  in  times  of  distress  is  common 
enough,  and  it  is  only  the  expression  of  it  that  is  rare. 
Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  shows,  in  this  single  chapter, 
the  clearest  following  of  the  double  thread ;  these  sixty 
pages  are  elegiac  as  Lycidas  is  elegiac,  but  no  more  than 
Lycidas  is  this  prose  memory  exclusively  elegiac.  The 
tenderest  of  memories  are  recalled,  the  simplest  of 
affections,  the  most  human  and  general  of  sorrows ;  and 
with  these  there  is  heard  the  accent  of  the  detached 
mind,  amid  the  funereal  foliation  a  jesting  face  appears, 
a  mocking  smile,  the  elegist  becomes  satirist,  and  you 
turn  the  page  hastily  when  you  find  that,  at  the  moment 
of  the  Christian  burial  of  his  mother,  he  smiles  at  the 
thought  of  himself  escaping  that  disgrace  and  murmurs 
joyfully,  'O  death,  where  is  thy  sting?'  for  he  sees, 
with  the  far-darting  eye  of  the  mind,  a  Grecian  urn 
and  a  little  pile  of  white  ashes. 

For  it  is  not  alone  the  true  and  the  false  that  overlap 
and  defeat  analysis,  but  the  pure  and  the  perverse,  the 
simple  and  the  cunning,  the  spirit  and  the  flesh ;  one 
concealing  and  anon  revealing  the  other,  one  trampling 
and  now  yielding  to  the  other.  Here,  in  this  unique 
prose  elegy,  the  sincere  and  the  assumed,  the  face  and 
the  mask,  the  spiritually  true  and  the  intellectually  true, 
appear  and  disappear,  one  passing  into  the  other  half  im- 
perceptibly, one  suddenly  drowned  by  the  other,  and  still 
almost  imperceptibly.  Personality  has  its  different  truths, 
its  various  planes,  its  unreconciled  opposites,  its  evanescent 
distinctions ;  in  George  Moore's  best  work  these  are  so 
delicately  disposed  and  so  cunningly  dispersed,  that  to 
pick  and  choose  among  instances,  rejecting  here  and 
enhancing  there,  is  both  delusive  and  exciting. 


177 

The  end  of  the  chapter  is  the  end  of  the  book.  At 
the  moment  when  the  priest  began  to  intone  the  Pater 
Noster,  Moore's  thoughts  turned  towards  the  sea^  the 
only  clean  and  holy  receptacle  for  the  vase  containing 
his  own  ashes.  '  If  it  were  dropped  where  the  sea  is 
deepest,  it  would  not  reach  the  bottom,  but  would  hang 
suspended  in  dark  moveless  depths  where  only  a  few 
fishes  range,  in  a  cool,  deep  grave  "  made  without  hands, 
in  a  world  without  stain/'  surrounded  by  a  lovely  revel 
of  Bacchanals,  youths  and  maidens,  and  wild  creatures 
from  the  woods,  man  in  his  primitive  animality.'  But 
nothing  endures,  all  passes  away  and  returns,  and  with 
this  ancient  idea  of  eternal  recurrence  singing  in  his  head, 
he  dreams  of  worlds  and  aeons,  appearing  and  vanishing 
and  returning  again. 

Memoirs  of  My  Bead  Life,  the  first  attempt  in  the 
author's  new  style  of  discursive  reminiscence,  claims  a 
large  part  of  his  fondness  as  he  looks  back ;  although 
that  style  was  as  yet  imperfectly  free  in  movement, 
transitions  being  abrupt  or  absent  and  the  tone  uneven. 
He  has  avowed  his  faith  that  if  any  twentieth-century 
literature  linger  on  into  the  twenty-first,  this  volume 
would  probably  be  among  the  last  stragglers.  The  revised 
text  (1921)  is  presented  in  the  beautiful  privately-printed 
form  of  Avowals,  and  includes  chapters  which  were 
not  offered  to  the  reader  of  the  earlier  humble  edition. 
The  title-page  of  the  new  issue  is  itself  an  amusement, 
as  the  bibliography  will  show,  but  there  is  a  better  wit 
and  humour,  well  matched  and  moving  easily  together, 
in  '  Euphorion  in  Texas.'  It  is  a  story  of  the  kind  that 
we  look  to  France  to  give  us,  never  to  England  since 
Sterne  died,  and  even  to  France  often  in  vain. 

Hail  and  Farewell  has  its  denominated  overture,  else  the 
Memoirs  might  well  stand  as  overture  to  the  great  trilogy 
that  followed  it  a  few  years  after.     Both  books  (like  The 

N 


178 

Lake  and  The  Untitled  Field)  are  the  immediate  result  of 
the  Irish  immersion_,  but  they  are  not  the  sole  result. 
A  Story-Teller  s  Holiday  (1918),  the  first  of  the  famous 
privately-printed  books  and  the  only  one  in  which  the 
author  has  taken  advantage  of  the  immunity  peculiar  to  a 
private  issue,  springs  out  of  the  same  inspiration,  and  is 
characterized  by  his  common  virtues  and  excesses.  In  a 
brief  preface,  entitled  '  A  Leave-Taking/  he  speaks  half 
regretfully  to  his  family  of  readers  of  the  steadfast 
persecution  of  his  writings  ever  since  Flofvers  of  Passion 
was  published.  The  Brook  Kerith  had  but  lately  been 
submitted  to  the  indignity  of  magisterial  writs,  and  yet 
more  recently  the  unhappy  Lewis  Seymour  and  Some  Women 
had  become  the  subject  of  a  libel  action,  a  certain  producer 
of  revues  complaining  that  his  name  had  been  used  by  our 
author.  Mr.  Justice  Darling  found  even  harsher  terms 
than  I  have  used  to  describe  the  book,  and  although  the 
action  failed,  the  humiliation  of  appearing  as  defendant 
was  profound.  Moore  did  well,  therefore,  he  thinks,  to 
retire  into  an  arcanum  in  which  he  could  practise  his  art 
in  dignified  privacy,  and  write  for  men  and  women  of 
letters  exclusively.  With  Landor  he  might  murmur,  *  I 
would  excite  the  pleasure  (it  were  too  much  to  say  the 
admiration)  of  judicious  and  thoughtful  men ;  *  but  he 
could  not  quite  truthfully  proceed, '  I  would  neither  soothe 
nor  irritate  these  busybodies.  I  have  neither  honey  nor 
lime  for  ants.'  There  is  a  careless  wisdom  in  such  arro- 
gance, but  it  is  only  partially  reached  by  George  Moore. 
.  .  .  The  book  betrays  the  story-teller's  proneness  to 
repetition,  passages  appearing  here  almost  precisely  as 
they  appear  elsewhere,  and  critical  obiter  dicta  being 
expressed,  if  not  in  the  same  terms,  at  any  rate  to  the 
same  purpose  as  in  other  books.  The  repetitive  tendency 
is  sometimes  disguised,  and  memories  of  his  own  childhood 
and  youth  are  given  by  another's  tongue  ;  hence  you  find 
the  story  of  Applely  told  once  again,  and  told  the  less 


179 

effectively.  But  the  virtues  are  more  conspicuous  than  the 
flaws ;  Moore  may  become  more  garrulous  when  he  speaks 
of  his  childhood,  and  show  the  common  proclivity  in  telling 
the  same  story  over  and  over  again ;  but  when  he  speaks 
of  his  revisiting  journey,  of  spring  stepping  always  a  little 
ahead  and  putting  beauty  into  everything  animate  and 
inanimate,  he  speaks  with  the  freshness  of  an  enchanted 
child.  In  these  warm  and  sunny  pastorals,  these  humbler 
prose  complements  to  A  Sensitive  Plant  and  Endymion, 
there  is  a  breath  of  that  wandering  beauty  whose 
passage  redeems  the  mortal  world.  And  it  must  be 
admitted,  too,  that  the  other  personality  whose  shadow 
falls  so  freakishly  across  the  reader's  path  wanders  here 
also,  telling  stories  that  are  not  common  in  English 
literature  but  common  enough  in  the  language  of 
Boccaccio.  The  primitive  animality  of  which  Moore 
speaks  in  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  suggests  the 
character  of  the  proper  audience  for  certain  of  these 
stories,  and  indeed  indicates  a  quality  which  he  esteems 
more  highly  as  a  vital  quality  than  I  can.  Once  again  I 
am  driven  to  the  mere  assertion  of  unreasoned  differences 
and  antipathies,  the  look  that  glances  through  the  tangle 
of  amorous  stories  being  the  look  of  a  younger  and  wilder 
Dr.  Fell.  .  .  .  Strange  to  me  is  this  intertwisting  of  the 
simple  and  the  sensual,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  cannot  be 
ignored ;  he  complicates  one  thing  with  another,  and 
were  he  imagining  a  Don  Quixote  he  would  interfuse 
with  that  great  nobility  something  of  Sancho  Panza,  or 
with  Pantagruel  something  of  Panurge,  his  sympathy 
naturally  and  unerringly  seeking  out  the  grossly  human 
in  the  most  divinely  human  of  characters.  Idealistic 
sentiments  find  no  sanctuary  in  his  mind ;  he  welcomes 
them,  sometimes,  only  to  mate  them  with  a  masculine  or 
feminine  grossness,  and  present  the  twin-minded  offspring 
to  the  Muse.  Sometimes  in  A  Story-Teller  s  Holiday  he 
delights  you  with  a  flower  of  strange  beauty  and  significance 


180 

even  in  the  midst  of  a  debateable  story  :  '  Luachet  is 
beautiful,  but  it  wasn't  her  beauty  altogether  that  drew 
me.  Well,  this  much  I  can  say  with  truth,  that  there  is 
something  beyond  the  lust  of  the  eye,  the  desire  of  the 
flesh,  something  that  is  beyond  the  mind  itself,  and  maybe 
that  thing  is  the  soul ;  and  maybe  the  soul  is  love,  and 
whosoever  comes  upon  his  soul  is  at  once  robbed  of  all 
thought  and  reason,  and  becomes  like  a  flower.'  And 
another  verity  is  glimpsed  by  Marban  when  he  adds : 
'  It  may  be  that  yesterday  I  would  have  denied  the  truth 
of  what  I'm  now  saying  to  you  all.  All  the  same  it  is  the 
truth  I'm  telling  you.' 

And  all  the  same,  the  reader  may  remark,  it  is  the  truth 
that  the  author's  sense  of  beauty  does  not  always  save 
him,  for  the  last  story  in  this  curious  medley 'd  volume,  a 
story  which  he  is  still  strangely  inclined  to  prize,  shows 
him  exercising  an  ingenuity  which  only  beauty  could  put 
to  a  sensible  purpose  ;  but  beauty  is  away,  and  not  a  touch 
of  her  kindness  or  mystery  is  visible.  It  is  the  story  of 
a  waiter  in  a  Dublin  hotel,  who  had  for  many  years  passed 
as  a  man  but  was  born  a  woman,  and  who  encounters 
another  in  the  same  case ;  and  although  there  is  no  offence 
in  the  episode,  the  whole  story  has  yet  the  irrelevance  of 
a  dream  and  the  harshness  of  a  nightmare.  Sex,  sex,  you 
cry  impatiently,  what  is  sex  doing  here?  It  is  the  one 
thing  you  are  conscious  of,  as  you  turn  and  turn  the 
pages,  and  yet  it  is  without  significance  ;  and  at  length 
you  come  to  perceive  that  the  fault  of  the  story  is  precisely 
the  fault  we  have  found  in  certain  earlier  stories — that  it 
is  written  to  a  theme  and  not  out  of  an  imagination.  Let 
me  write  a  story,  you  may  fancy  the  author  saying,  in 
which  a  girl  shall  pass  as  a  man  until  old  age  is  nearing ; 
let  her  conje  near  to  marriage — what  shall  I  make  of  such 
a  story  ? 

Worse  still,  he  has  failed  to  observe  how  completely 
this  last  story  is  at  odds  with  all  that  goes   before  in 


181 

another  mood.  Ibsen  in  the  midst  of  the  Decameron 
would  hardly  appear  odder  than  this  story  at  the  end  of 
the  romantic  narratives  told  in  a  lush  spring-time  by  men 
enchanted  by  spring.  For  once  Moore's  art  has  stumbled, 
or  it  has  slept;  the  naturalist  that  decayed  in  Celibates 
has  been  resuscitated  for  a  final  exercise,  and  has  written 
as  though  there  had  been  no  interval  since  Celibates.  .  .  . 
But  this  is  to  labour  a  fault,  and  the  only  justification  for 
doing  so  is  the  proof  that  a  hankering  after  the  grotesque 
can  enfeeble  the  author's  instinct  for  beauty.  The  two 
strands  of  his  character  as  an  artist  (it  is  convenient  to 
count  them  as  two,  rather  than  any  larger  number)  have 
strayed  apart,  and  it  is  the  worser  strand  that  alone  is 
traceable  here.  For  the  rest,  the  book  is  well-named; 
the  old  interest  in  the  story  for  the  story's  sake  is 
dominant,  and  if  there  is  a  holiday  for  anyone,  it  is  not 
for  the  artist  to  whom  the  visible  world  appears  as  fresh 
and  as  lovely  as  to  Adam  when  Lilith  was  with  him,  and 
again  when  it  framed  the  body  of  Eve.  Some  slender 
tradition  may  be  concealed  in  the  stories  told  by  the 
author's  companion,  but  they  are  unembarrassed  by  the 
tradition — developed,  he  says,  just  as  the  gipsy  develops 
on  his  fiddle  the  snatches  of  song  that  he  hears  the 
reapers  singing  in  the  cornfields. 

With  A  Story-Teller  s  Holiday  we  may  dismiss  the 
consideration  of  Ireland  as  an  immediate  influence  upon 
the  mental  life  of  our  author.  A  touch  of  pleasant 
melancholy  and  grieving  fondness  is  seen  here  and  there, 
when  he  casts  his  eyes  back  to  the  familiarities  of  child- 
hood and  murmurs :  '  It  is  our  former  selves  that  have 
vanished ;  we  are  always  winning  and  losing  something ; 
nothing  is  permanent  within  or  without.'  Yet  even  while 
he  charges  himself  with  this  inconstancy,  he  shows  that 
the  charge  is  not  wholly  true,  for  his  memory  is  un- 
changed and  undying.  But  his  fidelity  is  wholly  personal ; 
scarce  another  soul  in  Ireland  or  of  Irish  birth  can  please 


/ 


182 

him;  little  that  is  general  or  national  touches  his  heart 
for  long  or  deeply;  he  is  as  solitary  as  a  hermit,  and 
with  the  arrogance  of  isolation  can  say,  'The  falsetto 
scream  that  comes  out  of  Ireland  and  a  certain  untrust- 
worthiness  in  the  national  character  may  be  traced  back 
to  the  relinquishment  of  the  right  of  private  judgment.* 
For  him  the  Catholicism  of  Ireland  is  never  to  be  forgiven. 
Since  The  Story-Teller  s  Holiday  was  published  Moore 
has  said  little  of  his  native  country,  and  that  little  not  as 
an  artist.  At  whiles  he  has  shown  a  consciousness  of 
human  affairs,  writing  letters  to  The  Times  and  suggesting 
what  practical  steps  might  be  taken  to  end  the  Irish  chaos. 
Alas,  little  as  the  world  heeds  the  artist  when  he  speaks 
in  his  own  tongue  and  of  his  own  heaven,  it  heeds  him 
not  at  all  when  he  speaks  of  politics  and  the  follies  ot 
the  wise. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  TERMLESS  JOURNEY 


I  do  not  number  my  borrowings,  I  weigh  them. 
.  .  .  Knowledge  and  truth  may  be  in  us  without 
judgment,  and  judgment  also  without  them  ;  but 
the  confession  of  ignorance  is  one  of  the  finest 
and  surest  testimonies  of  judgment  that  I  know. 
— Montaigne. 


I  HAVE  referred  in  an  earlier  chapter  to  Moore's  regret 
that  when  he  avowed  himself  a  Protestant  at  heart, 
his  father  did  not  give  him  a  Bible  in  order  that  he  might 
be  confirmed  in  his  religious  conviction.  Nevertheless  it 
was,  it  seems,  to  his  father  that  he  owed  his  first  interest 
in  St.  Paul,  the  memory  of  a  phrase  overheard  when  he 
was  but  a  small  boy  being  lodged  in  his  mind  and  only 
springing  into  life  many  years  after.  The  phrase  referred 
to  the  pre-eminent  part  of  the  Apostle  in  the  establishment 
of  Christianity — without  St.  Paul  there  would  have  been 
no  Christian  religion  ;  a  theme  with  which  our  author  has 
now  become  perfectly  possessed,  and  which  has  imposed 
upon  him  a  wondering  admiration  of  the  supreme  genius 
among  all  the  Apostles. 

The  dedication  of  The  Brook  Kerith  shows  that  it  was 
not  until  1898  that  a  friend  gave  him  a  Bible,  and  although 
we  are  not  called  upon  to  believe  that  he  lived  for  more 
than  forty  years  without  a  knowledge  of  the  Scriptures, 
we  have  his  repeated  word  that  this  gift  became,  from 
1898  to  the  publication  of  The  Brook  Kerith  in  1916,  his 
constant  companion  and  chief  literary  interest.  But  The 
Brook  Kerith  was  not  the  first  sign  of  that  interest ;  did 
not  Mike  Fletcher,  in  1889,  talk  of  a  trilogy  on  the  life  of 
Christ?  and  long  after.  The  Apostle  of  1911  and  Salve  of 
1912  witness  to  his  vivid  delight  in  the  literature  of  the 
Bible,  and  his  sense  of  its  spiritual  value.  Thus  he  sur- 
veys the  Old  Testament  in  The  Apostle  and  repeats  his 
review  in  Salve,  finding  in  Genesis  a  collection  of  beautiful 
folk-tales,  in  the  Book  of  Job  and  the  Psalms  a  rhetorical 
note  and  an  absence  of  piano  passages,  in  Ecclesiastes  a 
beautiful  agnostic  work,  and  in  the  greater  and  lesser 
prophets  a  series  of  tractates  upon  morals  with  but  a  slight 

186 


186 

tincture  of  literature.  The  prophets,  indeed,  disgusted 
the  author  of  Lewis  Seymour  and  Evelyn  Lines — '  The  filthiest 
God  that  ever  came  out  of  Asia ! '  he  cried,  feeling  that  he 
could  not  stand  a  moment  longer  the  reek  of  sacrifice  and 
the  howls  of  dervishes. 

The  mere  force  of  his  own  disgust  threw  him  from  the 
Old  Testament  to  the  New,  and  he  continued  to  read 
until  ravishment  overcame  him  ;  how  was  it  that  he  had  so 
long  been  persuaded  that  Christianity  had  brought  nothing 
into  the  world  but  chastity  and  melancholia  ?  The  ques- 
tion falls  not  quite  without  surprise  upon  our  patient  ears, 
for  has  it  not  seemed  that  Christianity  is  confounded  with 
Catholicism,  and  substance  with  shadow,  in  the  curse 
which  George  Moore  has  so  frequently  invoked  in  the 
name  of  art,  from  the  day  of  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  to 
the  day  of  these  confessions  of  an  older  man  ?  That  note 
of  presumption  which  the  former  essay  in  autobiography 
sounded  in  its  reference  to  religion  may  seem  gross 
and  unpardonable  as  a  lapse  in  civilized  manners,  until  it 
is  remembered  that  ignorance,  pure  ignorance,  can  be 
pleaded  for  it ;  for  ignorant  youth  is  both  presumptuous 
and  pardonable.  And  as  the  Confessions  show  Moore  at 
his  worst,  a  merely  imitative  writer  who  would  be  thought 
French  and  audacious,  so  Hail  and  Farewell  and  The  Brook 
Kerith  show  him  at  his  best,  no  longer  an  imitative  writer, 
looking  with  other  eyes  upon  things  which  had  never 
before  troubled  his  ignorance  with  questions. 

It  is  as  a  man  of  letters — again  and  again  must  we 
remind  ourselves  that  Moore  is  wholly  and  exclusively  a 
man  of  letters — that  he  approaches  the  New  Testament 
and  the  character  of  Christ;  and  when  he  seeks  to  dis- 
cover the  clear  image  of  Jesus  in  the  four  Gospels  his 
distinctions  are  purely  aesthetic.  Thus  he  is  able  to 
decide  that  St.  Luke  is  an  earlier  sleek  Maeterlinck,  and 
even  those  who  share  this  enlightened  appreciation  of 
Maeterlinck  may  fail  to  agree  that  the  Gospel  according 


187 

to  St.  Luke  is  like  The  Treasure  of  the  Lowly.  He  passes 
on  to  St.  Matthew,  and  again  his  professional  eye  is  strict, 
finding  the  first  Gospel  a  canvas  that  has  passed  through 
the  hands  of  a  restorer.  St.  John,  as  the  work  of  a  later 
ecclesiastical  writer,  is  yet  more  briefly  dismissed,  and  it 
is  not  until  St.  Mark's  Gospel  is  reached  that  Moore 
catches  a  glimpse  of  '  the  magnificent  heretic'  His  admira- 
tion is  reserved  for  St.  Mark's  narrative,  in  which  he 
discovers  the  qualities  that  we  admire  in  Maupassant;  a 
concise,  explicit,  objective  narrative,  the  truth  of  which, 
in  fact,  we  shall  never  know,  though  the  imaginative 
truth  is  plain.  But  it  is  when  he  leaves  the  Gospels  for 
the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  that  he  is  conscious  of  passing 
from  legend  to  history,  and  it  is  still  the  aesthetic  test  that 
he  applies  in  distinguishing  a  new  voice — the  voice  of  St. 
Paul.  How  could  St.  Luke  have  written  the  story  of 
St.  Paul's  farewell  to  the  Ephesians  ?  The  blind  and  the 
deaf  know  nothing  of  the  art  of  writing. 

It  is  St.  Paul  that  fascinates  him — and  how  could  he 
not,  and  whose  is  the  imaginative  mind  which  has  not 
been  subdued  by  the  great  Apostle  ?  The  very  figure  of 
St.  Paul  rises  up  before  him  as  clearly  as  Don  Quixote — 
a  man  of  middle  height,  with  round  head  covered  with 
dark  curly  hair,  a  short  neck,  square  shoulders,  long  body 
and  thick  legs.  The  Epistles  of  St.  Paul  seem  to  him  the 
most  natural  literature  in  the  world,  and  their  author 
the  most  human  of  writers.  Inevitably  he  welcomes  the 
Apostle's  discussion  of  sex,  for  St.  Paul  knew  how  to  come 
to  terms  with  life  and  thus  lived  as  intensely  in  the  flesh 
as  in  his  theology.  'But  deeper  even  than  the  sex 
mystery  is  the  mystery  of  Being ;  we  all  ask  sometimes  if 
there  is  divinity  and  if  we  are  related  to  the  divine,  no 
matter  how  remotely.'  It  is  in  touching,  lightly  enough,  on 
this  mystery  that  our  author  finds  himself  approaching  the 
heart  of  another — How  is  it  that  the  Apostle  never  speaks 
of  the  sayings  of  Christ  and  seems  to  have  known  nothing 


188 

of  the  life  ot  Christ  but  three  things — the  Last  Supper 
and  Betrayal,  the  Crucifixion  and  the  Resurrection  ?  At 
once  he  turns  to  John  Eglinton  for  enlightenment,  and  his 
questions  are  partly  answered  and  partly  forgotten  in  the 
mention  of  a  book  which  contained  the  views  of  a  certain 
doctor  on  the  Resurrection.  The  doctor  was  inclined  to 
think  that  Christ  had  suffered  from  a  cataleptic  swoon 
which  had  been  mistaken  for  death,  and  thus  His  subse- 
quent appearances  were  not  supernatural  at  all. 

Moore  was  already  aware  of  an  old  legend  that  after 
His  crucifixion  Jesus  preached  in  India,  and  had  read  too 
that  He  was  supposed  by  some  to  have  been  an  Essene 
monk.  Why,  then,  should  not  He  have  returned  to  the 
monastery,  after  His  wounds  had  been  healed  by  Joseph 
of  Arimathea  ?  And  why  should  not  St.  Paul,  many  years 
later,  have  knocked  at  the  door  of  that  monastery  after  a 
day's  labouring  among  the  people  of  the  hills  ?  A  wonder- 
ful meeting  it  was,  as  he  swiftly  pictured  it,  the  climax  of 
a  story  which  possessed  him  completely  and  compelled 
him  to  dictate  the  scenario  of  The  Apostle.  But  why 
publish  it,  do  you  ask  ?  Because  he  could  not  refrain  from 
telling  his  imagination  over  and  over  again,  until  iothers 
wanted  to  collaborate  with  him  in  producing  a  play  or  a 
story  upon  the  great  theme ;  and  since  he  feared  that  the 
story  might  drift  into  the  common  mind,  and  somebody  or 
other  write  it  in  a  way  that  would  be  painful  to  the 
only  begetter,  Moore  decided  to  anticipate  the  imaginary 
offender  with  The  Apostle.  The  Apostle  is  but  a  rough 
sketch  for  a  more  deeply  considered  work.  The  story  ot 
The  Apostle  is  an  invented  story,  but  the  story  of  The 
Brook  Kerith  is  imaginative  ;  and  it  is  unnecessary  to  show 
in  detail  the  profound  difference  between  the  two.  You 
may  read  the  former,  but  only  with  difficulty;  you  will 
read  the  latter  not  without  difficulty  perhaps  (since  it  is  a 
work  of  art),  but  with  abundant  delight.  Moore,  in  fact, 
as  we  have  seen  again  and  again,  needs  to  brood  upon  his 


189 

first  thought ;  or,  to  change  the  metaphor,  the  roots  of  his 
conception  need  to  strike  deep  before  they  reach  the 
nourishing  soil ;  and  only  when  the  roots  have  struck  the 
rich  darkness  of  his  mind  does  his  conception  lift  its  head 
beautifully  in  the  light.  Hence  the  hasty  Apostle  has 
certain  invented  scenes  and  fancies  which  were  found  too 
crude,  too  violent,  for  the  uses  of  imagination ;  but  the 
purer  romantic  biography  which  is  given  in  The  Brook 
Keritk  is  purged  of  these  and  has  a  harmony  of  its  own — a 
harmony  between  the  character  of  Jesus  Christ  as  Moore 
discovers  it,  and  the  incidents  upon  which  that  character 
plays  or  by  which  it  is  moved. 

The  Brook  Kerith  is  a  simple  imagination,  and  it  is  the 
least  of  its  praise  that  it  achieves  easily  what  Renan  failed 
to  achieve.  Fiom  his  own  allusions  you  may  gather  that 
Moore  was  in  ignorance  of  Kenan's  work,  and  even  of  the 
intention  of  that  work,  when  The  Brook  Kerith  was  con- 
ceived, and  when  the  book  was  reviewed  he  wrote  eagerly 
to  explain  to  his  critics  the  genesis  of  his  imaginary 
biography;  but  now,  at  any  rate,  he  is  familiar  enough 
with  Renan' s  Vie  de  Jesus  to  detest  it  for  the  prettification 
of  its  subject.  .  .  .  Nowhere  in  St.  Matthew,  St.  Mark  or 
St.  Luke  did  he  find  that  Jesus  claimed  divinity ;  but  his 
main  difficulty  in  reading  the  synoptic  gospels  was  to  form 
a  distinct  conception  of  the  character  of  Jesus  ;  for  at  one 
time  He  is  meek  as  an  Essene,  and  at  another  rages  like 
the  Baptist.  He  found  a  clue  to  the  answer  in  remember- 
ing that  there  was  an  Essene  settlement  on  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  Jordan ; — what  was  more  natural  than  that  a 
young  shepherd  should  fall  under  the  influence  of  the 
Baptist,  who  was  preaching  in  the  neighbourhood  ?  It 
seemed  that  there  was  reason  for  holding  that  Jesus  was 
the  disciple  of  John,  and  not  John  the  disciple  of  Jesus ; 
and  what  was  more  natural,  again,  than  that  Jesus,  preach- 
ing the  doctrine  of  the  Essenes,  should  become  obsessed 
by  the  idea  of  the  time,  namely,  the  approach  of  the  end 


190 

of  the  world  ?  Our  author  believes  this  to  be  his  own 
exegesis,  and  says  that  it  helped  him  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  a  man  amid  the  gospel  mists.  But  this  was  not  all,  for 
the  story-teller  quickening  in  him  again,  he  imagined  a 
man  coming  out  of  a  swoon  to  find  all  his  beliefs  false.  In 
such  a  theme,  it  appeared,  there  was  a  grand  opportunity 
for  the  psychological  narrative  that  always  tempted  him. 
How  would  life  reconstruct  itself  for  Jesus  ?  Would  He 
not  take  refuge  in  His  trade,  returning  to  His  rams  and 
ewes,  and  keeping  all  thoughts  of  the  past  out  of  His 
mind  ? 

He  complains  that  criticism  reproached  him  with  the 
silence  of  the  Essenian  Jesus  regarding  His  crucifixion, 
but  that  is  part  of  the  psychology  of  Moore's  narrative, 
for  he  has  been  careful  to  represent  Jesus  as  not  only 
unable  to  speak  of  the  Crucifixion  and  the  ideas  that  led 
to  it,  but  unable  even  to  think  about  them.  Immersed  in 
His  old  shepherd's  duties,  twelve  years  pass  before  He 
begins  to  look  back ;  and  after  that  long  silence  He  would 
find  some  difficulty  in  telling  His  story.  Hence  it  is  not 
until  He  is  too  old  for  the  lonely  life  of  the  hills  and 
makes  over  His  flock  to  another  shepherd,  that  He  is  able 
to  tell  the  story  to  Hazael. 

Much  of  all  this  is  familiar  to  those  who  have  read 
Renan,  and  less  popular  authors  than  Renan.  The  French 
writer,  for  example,  sedulously  discredits  the  divinity  of 
Jesus;  he  too  suggests  the  possibility  of  Jesus  being  an 
Essene,  at  least  in  spirit ;  he  too  mentions  the  influence  of 
anchorites  such  as  Banu,  who  in  the  The  Brook  Kerith 
directs  Joseph  of  Arimathea  to  the  Baptist ;  and  he  too 
emphasizes  the  transition  from  the  exalted  tenderness 
of  Jesus  at  one  time,  to  His  exaggerated  harshness  at 
another.  But  Renan's  is  only  one  of  the  many  inventions. 
The  idea  of  the  removal  of  the  body  of  Jesus  by  Joseph 
of  Arimathea  is  to  be  found  in  earlier  fictional  lives,  with 
such  an  epilogue  as  that  He  afterwards  appeared  to  Mary, 


191 

lived  with  the  Essenes,  met  the  disciples  at  the  Mount  of 
Olives  and,  taking  leave  of  them,  walked  up  the  mountain 
until  a  cloud  concealed  Him;  returning  then  to  the 
Essenes,  and  only  at  rare  intervals  reappearing  in  human 
affairs;  the  occasion  chiefly  to  be  noted  just  now  being 
an  encounter  with  St.  Paul  on  his  way  to  Damascus. 
Other  inventions  relate  that  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  himself 
an  Essene,  used  Jesus  as  his  tool,  and  bribed  the  Romans 
to  permit  his  rescue  of  the  still  animated  body  from  the 
cross,  so  that  he  could  remove  it  to  his  own  tomb  and 
resuscitate  it ;  and  hence  it  is  alleged  that  the  Christian 
Church  had  its  origin  in  the  Essene  order.  Yet  another 
alleges  that  as  the  Baptist  came  forth  from  the  Essenes 
and  thought  himself  Elias,  so  Jesus,  thinking  Himself  the 
Messiah,  preached  a  spiritual  kingdom,  being  encouraged 
by  the  Essenes  and  helped  by  Joseph.  The  Essene 
origin  of  the  life  of  Jesus,  and  the  revival  of  His  body 
after  crucifixion,  are  features  common  to  many  of  the 
earlier  imaginary  biographies  which  we  owe  to  Germany. 

That  other  minds  had  for  long  been  moving  in  the 
same  direction  as  George  Moore's  is,  however,  of  little 
significance ;  the  question  of  historical  primacy  is  not  an 
important  question  in  a  matter  of  art.  The  letter  killeth, 
it  is  the  spirit  that  giveth  life  ;  and  Moore's  apprehension 
of  his  theme  is  vividly  imaginative.  He  approaches  it  as 
an  artist,  and  what  I  notice  infallibly  is  the  ease  with 
which  the  imaginative  tendency  is  harmonized  with  the 
rationalizing  tendency.  He  sees  Jesus  as  a  shepherd 
overswayed  by  His  passion  for  righteousness,  and  thinking 
at  length  that  only  His  sacrifice  can  save  the  world — a 
painful  extravagance  of  the  mind,  in  Moore's  eyes ;  and 
all  that  he  says  of  Jesus  is  said  from  that  point  of  view. 
And  then  he  sees  the  shepherd  resuming  His  common 
life  after  that  lofty  and  woeful  aberration,  when  the 
belief  for  which  He  suffered — the  belief  that  the 
Kingdom    of    Heaven    was    at    hand — had    been    found 


192 

false.  But  when  time  and  loneliness  have  enabled  Him 
to  look  back  upon  that  aberration,  St.  Paul,  the  great 
apostle  of  the  tragic  mistake,  comes  journeying  to  Rome 
and  testifying  to  the  risen  Christ.  .  .  .  Everything  in  the 
divine  story  is  rationalized — rather  say,  everything  is 
humanized ;  and  it  is  a  tribute  to  the  eternal  freshness  ot 
the  life  of  Jesus  Christ  that  this  re-statement  in  mere 
human  terms  of  the  divine  elements  of  that  life  should 
hold  so  much  of  beauty  and  so  much  of  truth.  The 
author's  nature  has  been  subdued  to  what  it  works  in ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  our  inquisition  into  his  nature,  does 
it  not  seem  remarkable  that  the  subdual  should  have 
been  so  complete  ?  Again  and  again  are  you  made  aware 
of  his  homage  to  the  figure  of  Jesus  Christ  as  his 
imagination  perceives  it;  and  more  than  this,  or  more 
than  such  a  recognition,  cannot  be  asked  of  any  man. 
His  attitude  has  been  resented,  but  can  it  be  resented 
that  he  should  attempt  what  painters  have  attempted.'* 
To  suggest  such  a  comparison  seems  unfair,  but  1  ask 
myself  which  represents  the  finer  tribute :  the  orthodox, 
unimaginative  life  of  Jesus  by  Dean  Farrar,  or  the 
unorthodox,  imaginative  life  by  George  Moore }  Insin- 
cerity would  have  made  The  Brook  Kerith  detestable, 
but  I  do  not  find  insincerity.  Some  will  detest  the 
humanizing  of  a  figure  which  for  two  thousand  years  has 
borne  divine  attributes,  but  it  is  not  a  relevant  objection. 
Moore  is  careful  to  call  his  book  ^A  Syrian  Story,'  and 
not  the  life  of  the  Messiah ;  and  my  own  surprise  is  not 
that  he  should  have  treated  his  subject  in  a  spirit  of 
rational  imagination  (the  term,  I  hope,  will  be  allowed), 
but  that  he  should  be  almost  alone  aniong  English  writers 
to  treat  it  thus. 

He  approaches  his  subject  as  an  artist,  I  said  ;  and  from 
the  humble  technical  position  his  manner  of  approach 
seems  to  me  of  singular  beauty.  He  looks  through  the 
eye  of  a  child,  and  Joseph  of  Arimathea  is  all  but  the  first 


193 

child  among  Moore's  characters.  With  what  a  melodious 
phrase  does  the  book  open — ^It  was  at  the  end  of  a 
summer  evening,  long  after  his  usual  bedtime,  that 
Joseph,  sitting  on  his  grandmother's  knee,  heard  her  tell 
that  Kish,  having  lost  his  asses,  sent  Saul,  his  son,  to  seek 
them  in  the  land  of  the  Benjamites  and  the  land  of 
Shalisha,  whither  they  might  have  strayed.  But  they 
were  not  in  these  lands.  Son,  she  continued,  nor  in  Zulp, 
whither  Saul  went  afterwards.'  Happily  the  method  of 
our  study  does  not  enjoin  upon  me  the  summarizing  of 
the  story,  but  it  permits  my  pointing  out  anew  Moore's 
characteristic  virtues.  He  is  said  to  indulge  in  an 
incredible  prolixity,  and  that  is  only  partly  true ;  indeed, 
at  times  his  narrative  moves  with  only  too  much  swiftness, 
and  you  are  compelled  to  read  narrowly  in  order  to  note 
important  transitions,  such  as  that  from  the  gentle  to  the 
terrible  Jesus.  Generally,  however,  the  favourite  manner 
of  reflective  recapitulation  is  indulged  in  freely,  and  if 
it  results  in  making  a  long  book,  it  is  because  incidents 
are  many  and  thoughts  are  legion,  and  only  life  is  short. 
He  indulges,  too,  in  another  favourite  method  in  his 
third  chapter,  when  he  resorts  to  a  picturesque  recital  of 
the  visit  of  vagabonds  to  Tiberias,  a  chapter  in  which 
mediaeval  Europe  is  thrust  back  to  the  first  century  and 
a  full  foretaste  of  the  romance  of  Heldise  and  Ahdlard  is 
offered. 

Imagination,  again,  transcending  the  necessities  of 
invention,  is  evident  in  his  presentation  of  the  central 
figure  at  first  through  the  loyal  and  affectionate  eyes  of 
Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and  then  directly,  without  the 
intervention  of  another,  when  Joseph  is  dead  and  Jesus 
returns  to  His  old  pastures.  That  vast  and  signifi- 
cant transition  (at  which  we  have  already  glanced)  is 
managed  quite  simply  by  means  of  an  incident  occurring 
when  Joseph  is  about  to  lead  Jesus  back  to  the  old 
settlement.  A  wandering  breeze  carries  the  smell  of  the 
o 


194 

camel-driver's  sheepskin  straight  into  Jesus*  nostrils,  and 

like    one    in    a    dream    He    questions    the    camel-driver 

regarding  the  quality  of  the  flocks.     Who  was  thy  master  ? 

asks     the     camel-driver;     and     Jesus    replies     that    His 

acquaintance  with  sheep  came  from  His  association  with 

the  Jordan  Essenes.     His  thoughts  are  at  once  immersed 

in   His  old  task,  and  when  the  two  travellers  reach  the 

monastery  it  is  with  a  simple  phrase  that  Hazael  greets 

Him — '  So   thou   hast   come   back   to   us ! '   forbearing  to 

ask   questions  concerning  the  three  years  of  separation, 

since  the  shepherd's  face  forbids  inquiry.     If  things  are 

said  or  done  that  remind  Jesus  of  His  late  experiences. 

He  covers  His  face  for  sorrow,  since  His  memory  is  clear 

enough  to  make  the  reminder  easy  and  bitter.     A   day 

may  come,  says  Joseph  privately  to  Hazael,  when  Jesus 

will  tell   His  story ;    and  with  hardly  another  word  for 

our  ears  Joseph  himself  passes  out  of  the  narrative,  being 

slain  by  the  Zealots  in  Jerusalem  as  one  of  the  Nazarene's 

friends.     News  of  Joseph's  death  on  His  account  reaches 

Jesus  and    He  grieves  with  more  than  mortal  grief.     A 

shepherd's  preoccupation  was  necessary,  it  has  been  said, 

to  save  Jesus  from  complete  despair  by  saving  Him  from 

thought;    and  it  is  in  the  recital   of  this  that  Moore's 

imagination   is   most   happily   alive ;    the    finest   instance 

being  his  relation   of  the   search  of  Jesus  for  a  ram  to 

renew  the  flock  of  the  Essenes  and  His  return  (the  symbol 

or  the  parable  is  left  for  the  reader's  perception)  with  the 

ram  in  His  bosom.     But  it  is  not  until  the  conclusion  of 

the  book  draws  near  that   the   lyric  becomes   dramatic, 

with  the  advent  of  St.  Paul  preaching  the  risen  Christ  on 

his  way  to  Rome.     I  repeat   that  the  historical  truth  of 

the  episode   is   irrelevant  when   an  imaginative  story   is 

being  considered. 

And  here  I  might  note  again  the  change  that  takes 
place  between  The  Apostle  and  The  Brook  Kerith ;  for  in 
the  former  the  hero  is  St.  Paul  and  the  story  develops 


195 

around  the  Apostle,  the  more  impressive  figure ;  but  in 
The  Brook  Kerith  he  is  a  secondary  figure,  and  the  reader 
looks  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  Jesus,  and  not  at  Jesus 
through  the  eyes  of  the  Apostle.  ...  Is  any  imaginative 
synthesis  more  quick  with  passion  than  this  of  St.  Paul's 
encounter  with  Jesus — St.  Paul  on  his  way  to  preach  the 
risen  Christ  and  the  salvation  of  the  world  by  faith,  and 
Jesus  vainly  striving  to  dissuade  him  from  preaching  an 
illusion  }  At  first  the  vehement  Apostle  denies  that  Jesus 
is  the  crucified  Jesus  risen  from  the  tomb,  and  a  great 
pity  for  him  takes  possession  of  Jesus  as  they  walk  side 
by  side  across  the  hills ;  but  when  at  length  St.  Paul 
can  no  longer  dispute  His  identity  he  answers,  'Thou'rt 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  I  deny  it  not,  but  the  Jesus  of 
Nazareth  that  I  preach  is  of  the  spirit  and  not  of  the 
flesh,  and  it  was  the  spirit  and  not  the  flesh  that  was 
raised  from  the  dead.'  Painful  and  profound  is  the 
moment  when  Jesus  shows  His  hands  and  feet  for 
testimony  that  it  was  indeed  He  that  was  crucified  and 
removed  from  the  tomb;  and  again  the  Apostle  answers 
inflexibly  that  his  Christ  is  not  of  this  world.  And  painful 
too  is  that  other  moment  when  Jesus  tells  him  that  it  is 
in  His  mind  to  go  once  more  to  Jerusalem,  so  that  the 
priests  may  know  that  He  whom  they  believe  to  be  raised 
from  the  dead  still  lives  in  the  flesh ;  and  so  the  world  be 
saved  from  a  delusion. 

The  English  language  has  been  brought  to  a  new 
exercise  in  the  prose  of  Moore's  story,  and  that  is  honour 
enough  for  an  author  and  joy  for  a  reader.  I  have  already 
referred  to  the  lovely  pastoral  episode  of  Jesus'  journey 
for  a  young  ram,  but  I  have  not  recorded  an  illustration  of 
one  manner  in  which  an  imaginative  writer  works.  It 
was  while  his  mind  was  full  of  the  story  that  Moore, 
walking  in  Ireland,  was  troubled  by  the  incessant  bleating 
of  a  lamb  which  the  shepherd  said  was  without  a  mother ; 


196 

the  ewe  (the  yoe,  as  our  author  prefers  to  call  it)  having 
been  killed  by  a  stray  ball.  It  would  be  dead  by  the  next 
morning,  said  the  shepherd,  for  another  ewe  would  not 
feed  it.  How  could  it  be  saved  ?  Imagine  Jesus  receiving 
a  forlorn  lamb,  how  could  He  save  it  ?  Another  shepherd 
was  asked,  and  he  had  saved  many  lambs  by  cutting  a 
stem  of  elder,  extracting  the  pith,  and  tying  a  rag  at  one 
end  for  the  lamb  to  suck  while  the  ewe's  milk  was  poured 
in  at  the  other.  So  the  episode  was  complete  in  his  mind, 
and  Jesus,  saving  the  young  ram  by  this  device,  was 
Himself  saved  by  His  care  for  it  from  the  despair  caused 
by  the  news  of  Joseph's  death. — The  incident  is  trifling, 
but  the  mental  processes  of  an  artist  are  never  insignificant, 
and  it  is  not  superfluous  to  remember  that  the  mind  does 
not  create  out  of  nothing.  The  pastoral  note,  sounding  so 
lightly  in  this  reference,  is  heard  throughout  the  narrative, 
and  is  dominant  in  those  many  passages  in  which  music 
and  colour  are  employed  in  the  reading  of  landscape.  It 
is  not  the  traditional  Palestine  but  the  soft,  green, 
remembered  Ireland  that  is  presented  again  and  again ; — 
Christ  in  Ireland  might  well  be  used  as  a  sub-title,  if 
regard  be  given  chiefly  to  Moore's  water-colour.  Nor 
is  it  simply  that  the  prose  is  beautiful ;  it  is  radiant 
with  a  beauty  which  Moore  did  not  discover  by  his  single 
visit  to  the  Holy  Land,  but  by  the  idleness  of  earlier  days 
in  his  native  country.     Compare  a  brief  passage  such  as  : — 

'  Every  breath  of  air  brought  a  new  and  exquisite 
scent  to  him,  and  through  the  myrtle  bushes  he 
could  hear  the  streams  singing  their  way  down  to  the 
lake ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  lake's  edge  he  heard 
the  warble  that  came  to  his  ear  when  he  was  a  little 
child,  which  it  retained  always.  .  .  .  But  suddenly 
from  among  the  myrtle  bushes  a  song  arose.  It 
began  with  a  little  phrase  of  three  notes,  which  the 
bird  repeated,  as  if  to  impress  the  listener  and  prepare 
him  for  the  runs  and  trills  and  joyous  little  cadenzas 


197 

that  were  to  follow.  A  sudden  shower  of  jewels  it 
seemed  like,  and  when  the  last  drops  had  fallen  the 
bird  began  another  song,  a  continuation  of  the  first, 
but  more  voluptuous  and  intense ;  and  then,  as  if  he 
felt  that  he  had  set  the  theme  sufficiently,  he  started 
away  into  new  trills  and  shakes  and  runs,  piling 
cadenza  upon  cadenza  till  the  theme  seemed  lost, 
but  the  bird  held  it  in  memory  while  all  his  musical 
extravagances  were  flowing,  and  when  the  inevitable 
moment  came  he  repeated  the  first  three  notes ' 

with  a  passage  by  Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton  : — 

'One  can  only  say  that  the  whole  landscape  was 
like  a  leper.  It  was  of  a  wasting  white  and  silver 
and  grey,  with  mere  spots  of  decadent  vegetation  like 
the  green  spots  of  a  plague.  In  shape  it  not  only 
rose  into  horns  and  crests  like  waves  or  clouds,  but  I 
believe  it  actually  alters  like  waves  or  clouds,  visibly, 
but  with  a  loathsome  slowness.  The  swamp  is  alive. 
And  I  found  again  a  certain  advantage  in  forgetful- 
ness ;  for  I  saw  all  this  incredible  country  before  I 
even  remembered  its  name,  or  the  ancient  tradition 
about  its  nature.  Then  even  the  green  plague-spots 
failed,  and  everything  seemed  to  fall  away  into  a 
universal  blank  under  the  staring  sun,  as  I  came,  in 
the  great  spaces  of  the  circle  of  a  lifeless  sea,  into  the 
silence  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.' 

It  is  plain  that  in  this  picture  of  the  unholy  spot  ot 
the  Holy  Land,  Mr.  Chesterton  has  worked  more  directly 
and  presented  more  sharply  a  vision  that  is  not  simply 
external.  George  Moore's  rendering  is  translated  into 
memories  of  childhood  and  Mayo,  and  Mr.  Chesterton's 
into  memories  of  moral  quake  and  triumph  ;  but  each  is 
characteristic  prose — the  one  transpicuous  and  fluent  as 
sliding  water,  the  other  vigorous,  clamant,  startling. 

Memory  is  short,  and  the  discussion — not  quite  un- 
deliberately  provoked,  perhaps  —  which  followed  The 
Brook  Kerith,  may  have  been   quickly  forgotten ;   and   I 


198 

might  remind  the  forgetful  reader  that  the  story  was 
assailed  by  orthodox  writers  who  were  unwilling  to  admit 
any  other  criterion  than  that  of  conformity  to  an  accepted 
type.  The  violence  of  objectors  became  vicious,  and  the 
voices  of  those  who  welcomed  the  book  were  still  very 
small.  Moore,  in  fact,  was  made  to  suffer  for  having 
written  such  a  story  as  Evelyn  Innes.  I  regret  it,  because 
The  Brook  Kerith  thus  achieved  notoriety,  and  notoriety 
obscured  for  a  time  its  simplicity.  Unluckily,  too,  the 
author  made  the  profound  mistake  of  following  his  narra- 
tive with  Lewis  Seymour,  an  example  of  levity  which  was 
bound  to  distress  the  faithful  and  rejoice  the  malicious. 
And  had  he  not,  years  before,  offended  the  libraries  with 
the  severe  morality  of  J  Mummers  Wife?  So  The  Brook 
Kerith  was  banned,  and  criticism  gave  way  to  intolerance. 
Nor  could  his  admirers  derive  much  comfort  from  reflecting 
that  he  had  courted  the  attack,  for  it  is  deplorable  that  a 
work  of  imagination  should  be  regarded  as  an  obscene 
scrawl.  If  aesthetic  considerations  be  ignored  (and  his 
aestheticism,  as  we  have  noted,  is  the  writer's  all),  there 
is  yet  another  consideration  to  be  weighed,  namely,  his 
own  justification  for  treating  Jesus  Christ  as  human  and 
not  as  the  Son  of  God.  Had  he  printed  a  single  one  of 
the  many  meditated  prefaces,  or  a  single  one  of  the 
retorts  which  quivered  on  his  eager  tongue,  he  would 
have  reminded  us  that  the  humanity  of  Jesus  Christ  is 
no  new  assertion,  and  that  Christianity,  in  its  recurrent 
renewal,  may  even  now  be  striving  towards  a  new  appre- 
hension of  the  man,  rather  than  maintaining  its  assertion 
of  the  God.  .  .  .  But  theological  argument  is  apart  from 
my  power  and  purpose,  and  I  am  only  concerned  to 
remember  that  an  heretical  book  is  not  necessarily  bad 
literature. 

In  an  essay  by  James  Elroy  Flecker,  whose  early  death 
robbed  our  time  of  a  true  poet,  the  unending,  needless 


199 

quarrel  between  art  and  the  world  is  re-phrased  in  a 
dialogue  intended  for  the  rebuke  of  the  world  that  ignores 
the  living  artist  and  discovers  the  dead  : — 

'  Come  out  and  love,  Pentheus  .  .  .  leave  your 
ridiculous  concerns,  your  childish  politics,  your 
amusingly  ugly  towns.  There  are  lands  where  sun- 
light and  harmony  are  not  yet  dead ;  there  are 
the  absurdest  poets  leading  lobsters  on  strings  and 
charming  all  the  sylvan  beasts  by  their  pleasant 
ways.  .  .  . 

'  Then  that  man  answers  :  My  dear  sir,  1  am 
entirely  with  you.  You  must  not  imagine  that  in 
the  midst  of  more  serious  pursuits  I  have  neglected, 
or  even  desired  to  neglect,  the  interests  of  Art.  .  .  . 
I  need  only  refer  to  my  art  galleries,  to  the  Royal 
Academies,  and  to  the  great  efforts  I  have  made  to 
provide  all  who  come  to  the  County  Council  schools 
with  a  sound  grounding  in  English  literature,  starting 
with  Beowulf,  and  tracing  the  gradual  development 
of  Idealism  down  to  the  death  of  Tennyson.' 

The  quarrel  is  unending  because  it  is  based  upon  a 
fallacy  or  confusion  of  the  kind  to  which  human  nature 
is  prone  ;  and  it  is  the  artist  himself  who  yields  to  it, 
for,  oppressed  by  failure  and  discouraged  by  unworthy 
success,  he  is  apt  to  cry  out  upon  those  who  pass  his 
work  unheeding.  He  is  apt  to  complain  that  the  world 
does  not  welcome  or  even  endure  art,  and  he  sometimes 
fosters  a  suspicion  of  hostility  when  at  worst  there  is  but 
ignorance  and  indifference.  Driven  back  upon  himself, 
he  becomes  querulous  or  arrogant — moods  that  are  acid 
to  his  work;  and  that  is  far  more  lamentable  than  the 
injustice  of  his  attitude  towards  the  world.  The  letters 
of  George  Meredith  teem  with  unhappy  evidence  of  this 
confusion,  presenting  the  tragic  comedy  of  a  bright  genius 
in  the  midst  of  a  world  which  it  disdained  to  please,  yet 
could  not  quietly  forgive  for  not  being  pleased. 


200 

But  art  does  not  exist  to  conciliate  the  world,  nor  the 
world  to  recognize  art.  Art  exists  for  itself,  an  eternal 
expression  of  the  zest  of  creation,  knowing  no  joy  but  in 
the  consciousness  of  existence,  and  content  if  it  find  space 
and  time  for  its  movement.  By  its  mere  existence  it 
atones  for  the  coarseness  of  the  world,  whose  veins  it 
animates  with  a  finer  essence ;  but  the  artist  has  no 
complaint  if  the  world  is  ignorant  of  his  aim  and 
indifferent  to  his  emotion,  for  he  is  paid  and  overpaid  by 
that  mere  consciousness  of  creation.  Enemies  he  has, 
but  the  world  is  not  one  of  them.  His  chief  enemy  hides 
slily  in  his  own  heart,  and  another  is  Marvell's  enemy : — 

*  At  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  hurrying  near. 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity.' 

Creative  art  is  a  world  in  itself,  obedient  to  other  laws, 
bound  by  other  obligations  of  honour,  than  the  laws  and 
obligations  of  the  social  world.  Some  men  may  be  called 
to  serve  and  shape  the  world,  and  if  the  artist  is  deaf  to 
that  call,  pursuing  an  Idea,  an  imagination  of  his  mind, 
he  is  not  to  lament  that  the  world  is  deaf  to  him.  The 
more  original  his  creation,  the  more  vexing  it  will  be  to 
the  unimaginative  mind,  and  he  need  not  attempt  to 
make  the  best  of  both  worlds ;  for  having  chosen  the 
immaterial,  the  material  world  will  probably  forget  to 
choose  him. 

And  in  this  attitude  of  independence  there  will  be  no 
more  than  a  healthy,  natural  pride,  a  pride  so  near  to 
humbleness  that  the  artist  will  have  no  room  for  rancour. 
^  The  large,  dull,  indocile  world,'  he  will  murmur,  '  has  no 
great  occasion  to  delight  in  what  I  have  done ;  the  delight 
is  mine,  and  no  material  recognition,  however  brave 
and  sumptuous,  can  reward  immaterial  creation ;  I  am 
content.'  .  .  .  Sometimes,   by    the   very  wildest  felicity. 


301 

material  recognition  does  fall  upon  the  creator — absurd 
and  welcome  luck  !  but  it  is  as  incalculable  as  spring 
in  winter. 

George  Moore  has  seldom  endured  injuries  in  silence, 
and  I  have  already  alluded  to  his  resentment — perfectly 
just  and  perfectly  vain — of  the  attitude  of  the  libraries 
towards  certain  of  his  books.  In  those  books  he 
challenged  the  world,  and  the  world  replied  in  its  old 
dull-eared  way  that  makes  recrimination  useless.  But 
there  is  something  finer  than  resentment  in  his  regard 
for  his  calling:  there  is  pride,  and  a  jealousy  for  the 
honour  of  English  letters ;  and  although  it  does  not 
persuade  him  into  muting  his  tongue  to  shy  whispers 
and  becoming  as  other  men  (and  therefore  less  himself), 
it  secures  him  against  worse  than  casual  lapses.  His 
pride  extends  to  the  outward  form  of  a  book,  demanding 
the  same  conscience  in  the  type-founding,  type-setting 
and  paper-making  as  he  has  himself  come  to  observe  in 
the  diligent  art  of  an  author.  The  Brook  Kerith  showed 
the  first  and  admirable  sign  of  this  rare  concern,  but 
A  Story -T eller  s  Holiday  is  a  better  as  well  as  a  more 
costly  example.  The  suggestion  having  been  made  that 
in  issuing  expensive  and  fine  books  he  is  actuated  only 
by  a  spirit  of  gain,  he  answers  :  A  strange  charge  to  bring 
against  a  man  who  has  worked  for  thirty  years,  week  in, 
week  out,  at  a  craft  in  which  he  is  considered  a  master- 
craftsman  by  common  consent  without  ever  making  two 
thousand  a  year,  very  rarely  one  thousand,  more  often 
merely  a  few  hundreds  !  He  adds,  Let  none  read  in  this 
statement  a  complaint  of  injustice  done  to  me.  My 
recompense  is  the  full  enjoyment  of  my  craft,  and  in 
circumstances  so  favourable  that  it  is  often  a  wonder  to 
me  that  I  did  not  do  better  than  I  have  done.  To  escape 
from  useless  regret  I  fall  to  thinking  of  the  difficulties 
that  beset  every  man  who  goes  forth  with  an  ideal  in 
his  mind. 


202 

He  is  bound  by  those  strict,  intangible  bonds  which  are 
at  once  a  trouble  and  delight,  and  especially  a  trouble 
because  the  queer  wantonness  that  lurked  within  the 
earlier  writer  has  never  been  quite  suppressed  in  the 
later.  The  desultory  war  between  sense  and  spirit  seems 
to  have  been  revived  at  times  almost  with  deliberation, 
as  though  for  his  own  disengaged  pleasure  ;  and  the 
sound  of  that  conflict,  even  partly  hushed,  is  never 
wholly  pleasant  and  yields  only  a  speculative  interest. 
'  Unhappy,'  he  once  wrote,  '  is  he  who  forgets  the  morals, 
the  manners,  the  customs,  the  material  and  spiritual  life 
of  his  country.'  Sometimes  his  own  vision  is  forgotten  or 
defied,  but  the  more  secure  he  becomes  in  the  art  of 
writing — I  mean  by  that  something  beyond  grammatical 
or  stylistic  craft — the  less  easy  is  his  surrender  to  the 
satyr-like  mood  against  which  my  constant  protest  is 
directed.  His  temptation  has  not  been  to  court  the 
world  but  to  shock  it,  a  subservience  as  ill-seeming  as 
any  compliance ;  but  the  temptation  has  become  weaker, 
or  his  strength  greater,  and  he  has  steadily  grown  in 
loyalty  to  the  invisible  world  of  his  choice. 

His  attitude  towards  his  art  and  his  attitude  towards 
the  world  are  discovered,  implicit  or  explicit,  in  every 
book,  for  it  is  peculiarly  true  of  Moore  that  his  art  is 
a  personal  one  ;  and  he  himself  has  said,  in  speaking  of 
his  admired  Turgenev,  that  the  impersonality  of  the 
artist  is  the  vainest  of  delusions.  Personality  informs 
not  merely  his  novels,  the  books  (that  is)  which  commonly 
and  alone  are  called  creative  art ;  nor  merely  his  imagin- 
ative memoirs,  which  no  definition  as  yet  has  covered ; 
but  also  his  criticism,  which,  as  we  have  already  seen, 
is  straightforward  and  vigorous  in  Modem  Painting  and 
Impressions  and  Opinions,  but  far  more  intimate  and 
ponderable  in  Avoivals  and  sundry  prefaces.  Avowals, 
above  all,   expresses   Moore's   attitude   towards   the   art 


203 

through  which  he  looks  out  upon  life.  In  the  perfection 
of  prose  fiction  he  seeks  for  a  lucidity  and  profundity 
of  apprehension,  whereby  life  shall  be  manifested  as  order 
as  well  as  tumult,  deep  as  well  as  broad  ;  and  Avowals 
is  his  Odyssey,  an  Odyssey  with  disappointment  on  every 
day's  horizon,  but  bloomed  over  with  amber  clouds  and 
winnowed  continually  by  fresh  hopes.  He  is,  he  acknow- 
ledges, without  erudition,  as  many  of  the  ancients  were, 
but  he  thinks  the  eyes  of  the  ancients  are  his. 

His  thesis  is  that  only  the  subaltern  mind  has  attempted 
prose  narrative  in  England,  the  English  genius  having 
accomplished  little  or  nothing  outside  poetry.  Perhaps 
there  is  the  merest  touch  of  a  grudge  in  this  view,  for 
the  author  of  Hail  and  Farewell  is  not  satisfied  that  a 
poet  should  write  nothing  but  poetry,  which  he  sees  as 
a  lyrical  flower,  sudden  and  unpredictable,  and  not  the 
main  engagement  of  a  serious  mind.  On  points  like  these 
discussion  with  him  is  in  courtesy  impossible.  ...  I  do 
not  know  what  degree  of  complicity  in  these  conversations 
Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  might  admit,  but  certainly  they  are 
so  contrived  as  to  present  a  serious  argument  with  an 
ease,  a  vivacity,  a  brilliance  and  a  simplicity  which  make 
Avowals  the  worthiest  book  to  set  beside  the  Imaginary 
Conversations  of  Landor,  of  whom  Moore  gives  you  the 
frankest  and  most  assured  of  reminders.  There  are 
felinities  of  touch  which  Mr.  Gosse  might  resent,  if  he 
did  not  remember  that  they  are  the  felinities  of  friendship 
and  therefore,  perhaps,  not  unpardonable.  Waiving  the 
smaller  Elizabethan  romances,  the  discussion  starts  with 
Robinson  Crusoe,  although  our  author  would  rather  have 
started  with  Fielding;  but  the  reference  to  Defoe  gives 
him  the  opportunity  of  obscuring  his  thesis  with  the 
remark  that  inferior  writers  seized  upon  English  prose 
narrative  as  a  means  of  getting  money.  Luckily  he  does 
not  proceed  to  assert  that  writing  for  money  annihilates 
the  creative  purpose,  but  he  metaphorizes  his  objection 


204 

by  saying  that  English  fiction  never  finishes  gallantly — 
it  is  a  hackney,  while  French  and  Russian  narrative  shows 
breeding.  Nobody,  he  adds,  was  more  terre  a  terre  than 
Crusoe,  and  England  expressed  herself  uncommonly  well 
in  her  first  narrative.  Audacious  still,  he  throws  out 
hints  for  the  better  completion  of  Robinson  Crusoe^  for  he 
would  fain  make  it  finish  gallantly,  instead  of  finishing 
dead ;  and  why,  he  asks,  should  we  not  re-arrange  literary 
masterpieces }  Because,  it  may  be  answered,  some  George 
Moore  of  the  future,  surveying  a  mutilated  George  Moore 
of  the  past  and  regarding  the  offence  as  rank,  might  be 
pricked  to  murder ;  and,  more  seriously,  a  book  that  lives 
long  enough  to  provoke  such  questions  means  one  thing 
to  one  age,  and  something  else  to  another.  And  the 
value  of  a  book,  as  Moore  knows  as  well  as  any  author, 
consists  in  the  individuality  and  not  in  the  commonalty 
of  its  authorship.  Esther  Waters  amended  by  an  aspiring 
youth  of  1950 — no!  .  .  .  Already,  he  would  have  us 
believe,  it  saddens  him  to  think  that  the  next  generation 
may  be  more  concerned  with  his  writings  than  with 
Landor's  or  Pater's,  and  merely  because  his  own  are 
inferior.  But  it  is  worth  while  to  note  this  plea  of  our 
author's,  for  he  has  illustrated  a  like  discontent  and 
restlessness  in  regard  to  many  of  his  own  books,  giving 
them,  if  not  new  ends,  new  bodies,  more  athletic  and 
shapely  outlines,  and  brooding  upon  his  own  successes 
like  a  peacock  within  his  tent  of  splendid  plumes. 

There  is  much  to  argue  about  in  these  serenely  nimble 
conversations,  for  almost  every  page  has  its  provocation; 
but  in  the  midst  of  questionings  it  is  delicious  to  hear 
Moore's  tribute  to  Cervantes,  who  used  an  eternal  gesture 
and  whose  genius  dwarfed  even  Turgenev's;  for  it  is 
easier  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  than  for  a  popular  writer  to  step  within  the 
brilliant  disc  of  Moore's  praise.  But  when  he  returns 
to   the    English   novel    it    is   to   find    it   silly,    illiterate, 


205 

sentimental,  erudite  and  so  forth  by  turns,  but  never 
serious  ;  and  by  his  rigid  if  indefinable  standards  to  declare 
that  George  Eliot  was  trivial  and  Sterne  serious.  Let  it  be 
remembered  here  that  our  author  does  not  easily  indulge 
in  paradox,  and  certainly  not  when  he  goes  on  to  say  that 
A  Sentime?ital  Journey  recalls  antiquity.  The  chief  interest 
of  the  conversations,  however,  does  not  lie  immediately  in 
the  critical  opinions  so  freshly  presented,  but  in  their 
illumination  of  Moore's  mind,  the  candid  survey  of  which 
is  his  own  dispassioned  concern.  The  time  will  come,  he 
says  to  Mr.  Gosse,  when  memories  will  seem  like  hips 
and  haws  hardly  worth  the  gathering;  and  he  adds  that 
the  feminine  trouble  will  be  the  first  to  disappear.  It 
you  are  a  little  weary  of  yourself,  is  the  reply,  it  is 
because  you  have  lost  the  habit  of  reading ;  and  he  admits 
having  invested  too  much  in  art.  ...  It  was  in  1885, 
when  he  went  to  Moore  Hall  to  write  Muslin,  that  he 
first  read  Marius  the  Epicurean,  and  was  so  overwhelmed 
by  it  that  he  wanted  to  return  to  London  in  order  to 
find  how  such  a  book  was  appreciated  there.  His 
mother,  he  says,  asked  what  matter  it  was  how  the  book 
was  received  in  London  since  he  liked  it : — '  You're 
always  asking  people  for  their  opinions,  but  I  don't  think 
you  ever  take  them.'  But  his  idea  was  not  to  listen  but 
to  speak  and  say,  with  apostolic  accent,  that  Pater  had 
added  a  prose  work  to  English  literature ;  and  his  account 
of  the  guarded  personality  of  his  subject  has  a  special 
interest.  Moore  claims  a  genius  for  intimacy,  and  shows 
Pater  as  possessing  a  genius  for  disguise  and  detachment ; 
and  you  may  imagine  something  amusing  and  something 
pathetic  in  the  contact  or  conflict  of  the  two  writers. 
For  intimacy  proved  impossible,  though  Moore  speaks  of 
his  relation  with  Pater  as  having  been  almost  affectionate ; 
and  hence  he  sums  up  in  a  too-neat  and  narrow  phrase — 
'A  shy,  sentimental  man,  all-powerful  in  written  word, 
impotent    in    life.'      Affection    seems    to    have    died    as 


206 

suddenly  as  it  grew ;  it  is  a  judgment  which  falls 
strangely  from  our  author,  whose  powers  have  been  so 
faithfully  concentrated  on  the  written  word,  and  displayed 
so  negligently  in  'life.'  Nevertheless  the  intellectual 
recognition  is  constant,  for  he  still  regards  Pater  as  the 
writer  of  the  most  beautiful  of  modern  English  prose, 
although  without  pointing  precisely  to  his  supreme 
achievement — the  cold,  crystalline,  faint-flushed  picture 
of  Sebastian  van  Storck  and  a  few  other  unfading  water- 
colours.  Had  Moore  followed  his  disparagement  with 
some  warmer  praise,  his  portrait  of  Pater  would  have 
been  unquestionable. 

His  appreciation  of  Pater's  prose  is  almost  the  only 
exception  to  his  generally  unsympathetic  view  of  contem- 
porary writers.  It  is  fortunately  unnecessary  to  recite 
instances  of  depreciation,  or  to  account  for  it  beyond 
mentioning  the  commonly  noted  failure  of  the  imaginative 
artist,  in  whatever  medium  he  may  work,  to  apprehend 
the  significance  of  another's  creation.  Concentration 
involves  sacrifice,  even  if  it  be  but  an  involuntary  and 
unconscious  sacrifice ;  and  perfect  responsiveness  to  the 
imaginations  of  others  is  hardly  to  be  expected  of  an 
artist  who  is  intensely  preoccupied  with  his  own.  Henry 
James,  restless  analyst  as  he  avows  himself,  lacked  some- 
thing of  the  amenity  of  perfect  apprehension,  growing 
into  himself,  his  manner  sinking  slowly  and  deeply  within, 
until  his  later  writing  appeared  to  some  the  ultimate 
refinement  and  to  some  the  ultimate  perversion  of  his 
earlier ;  and  how  then  could  he  retain  that  freshness  and 
immediacy  of  response  which  was  once  to  be  found  in  his 
references  to  others.^  But  Moore's  attitude  was  already 
far  more  inflexible  than  Henry  James's,  and  his  natural 
readiness  less  marked,  even  when  his  own  characteristics 
were  unformed  or  unrecognizable.  James,  it  seems, 
thought  A  Mummer  s  Wife  too  long,  and  said  (the  author 
concurring)   that   it    seemed   to   have    been   thought   in 


207 

French  and  inadequately  translated;  and  it  is  in  con- 
trasting A  Muynmers  Wife  with  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady 
that  Moore  complains  that  James  is  mistaking  trivial 
comments  about  men  and  women  for  psychology.  That 
which  is  firmly  and  clearly  imagined,  he  adds,  needs  no 
psychology;  Hamlet  and  Don  Quixote  are  psychologies, 
and  so  is  Dick  Lennox,  though  a  long  way  off.  He  found 
that  Henry  James  was  too  analytic  for  creation,  an 
opinion  that  is  not  offered  as  more  than  an  opinion.  He 
is  impatient  of  those  etherealized  reveries,  those  infinitely 
refined  discriminations,  those  wing-like  and  unabiding 
shadowings,  which  distinguish  the  later  novels  of  Henry 
James  from  the  earlier  as  plainly  as  from  all  other  novels 
save  those  of  sedulous  disciples.  Such  complexities  of 
narrative  tease  and  bewilder  Moore,  for  his  own  narrative 
has  steadily  become  a  simpler,  single  strand,  clear  as  a 
stream  drawing  its  delicious  coolness  over  a  shining  bed, 
beneath  green  weeds  and  their  shadows.  That  The 
Ambassadors  and  The  Golden  Bowl  should  have  flowed 
inevitably  down  from  the  spring  that  once  gave  us  The 
Portrait  of  a  Lady  and  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  seems  not 
to  have  occurred  to  Moore's  speculations ;  yet  is  it  less 
surprising  than  that  A  Modem  Lover  should  have  trickled 
on  to  Evelyn  limes,  and  all  the  first  turgidity  been  lost  in 
the  clear  waters  of  The  Brook  Kerith  ? 

However  Moore  may  have  failed  in  comprehension  of 
others,  he  has  offered  the  wise  and  true  doctrine  for  their 
acceptance — *  If  we  would  appreciate  a  writer,  we  must 
take  into  account  his  attitude  towards  life,  we  must  dis- 
cover if  his  vision  is  mean  or  noble,  spiritual  or  material.' 
The  sentence  comes  astonishingly  in  the  middle  of  an 
essay  in  which  the  merits  of  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  are 
applauded  ;  astonishment  being  thoughtlessly  based  upon 
the  fact  that  Moore,  who  deplored  the  development  of 
Henry  James,  should  have  praised  the  development  of 
so  alien  an  artist  as   Mr.  Kipling.     But  astonishment  is 


208 

stupid,  for  he  has  so  carefully  trained  himself  in  candid 
expression  that  what  he  says,  whether  of  Henry  James 
or  Kipling,  of  Dostoeffsky  or  Turgenev,  may  be  listened 
to  as  a  kind  of  acute  and  innocent  thinking  aloud ;  and 
this  remains  the  grand  virtue  of  Avowals.  Moore  does 
not  attempt  the  kind  of  wisdom  that  the  late  Remy  de 
Gourmont  had  attained  when  he  reminded  us  that,  ^  If 
there  were  an  art  in  writing,  it  would  be  nothing  more  or 
less  than  the  art  of  feeling,  the  art  of  seeing,  the  art  of 
hearing,  the  art  of  using  all  the  senses,  whether  directly 
or  through  the  imagination  ;  and  the  new,  serious  method 
of  a  theory  of  style  would  be  an  attempt  to  show  how 
these  two  separate  worlds — the  world  of  sensations  and 
the  world  of  words — penetrate  each  other.'  But  the 
French  critic  describes  precisely  Moore's  own  practice, 
which  achieves  in  Avowals  a  perfect  harmony  of  his 
thoughts — flowing  on,  now  bright,  now  deep,  sometimes 
slowly,  sometimes  swiftly,  and  sometimes  bearing  an  echo 
of  the  masculine  and  curt  phrase  of  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

The  story  in  Celibates  called  'John  Norton'  has  the 
interest  of  a  reference  to  the  subject  of  one  of  the  chief 
works  of  Moore's  later  maturity,  Helo'ise  and  Abelard. 
Norton,  it  may  be  remembered,  is  the  essential  celibate 
who,  shrinking  from  the  abyss  of  marriage,  is  thankful  for 
the  tragedy  that  saves  him  from  marriage.  '  He  knew  now 
that  he  could  not  have  fulfilled  the  life  of  marriage.  .  .  . 
They  could  not  have  lived  together.  They  would  have 
had  to  part.  His  life  and  hers  would  have  been  irretriev- 
ably ruined,  and  then }  John  remembered  the  story  of 
Abdard  and  Heloise.  A  new  Abelard — a  new  Heloise  ! ' 
The  reference  is  sufficiently  early  to  suggest  that  the 
subject  of  Moore's  romance  of  Heloise  and  the  great  clerk 
and  great  lover  was  for  many  years  among  those  teasing 
and  obstinate  themes  which  float  in  the  mind,  now  on  the 
surface,  and  now  submerged  and   forgotten.     Moore  had 


209 

forgotten  Pater  s  few  pages  in  The  Renaissance  when  he 
composed  his  own  book,  and  is  glad  he  had  forgotten  them 
and  was  not  disturbed  by  those  other  harmonies  of  Pater's 
early  prose.  'True  child  of  light,  the  humanist,  with 
reason  and  heart  and  senses  quick,'  is  Pater's  phrase  for 
the  great  mediaeval  philosopher  who  overthrew  his  rivals 
until  he  himself  was  overthrown  by  his  passion  for  Heloise, 
married  her,  was  separated  and  mutilated,  and  stole  a 
flame-like  immortality  from  the  few  letters  attributed  to 
Heloise  and  himself.  Pater  is  not  concerned  with  Heloise, 
and  it  marks  Moore's  distinction  from  him  that  the  title 
of  his  romance  should  be  Heloise  and  Abelard  and  not 
Ahelard  and  Heloise.  Pater  presents  Abelard,  in  his  all 
too  few  pages,  as  an  influence  rather  than  as  a  man  and 
lover — 'he  prefigures  the  character  of  the  Renaissance, 
the  movement  in  which,  in  various  ways,  the  human  mind 
wins  for  itself  a  new  kingdom  of  feeling,  sensations  and 
thought ; '  but  Moore  in  his  two  volumes  presents  him 
chiefly  as  lover,  as  gleeman,  and  far  less  fully  as  theologian 
or  philosopher.  He  quite  simply  justifies  himself  by 
insisting  that  he  is  writing  Heloise  and  Abelard  and  not 
another  book,  using  the  painful  story  of  their  love,  separa- 
tion and  last  meeting,  and  forbearing  to  touch  that  after 
period  with  which  the  letters  are  concerned.  The  unhappy 
monk  who  cried  so  solemnly  against  the  beloved  sins  of 
the  past  is  an  unforgettably  sad  and  great  figure ;  and 
those  sins,  that  thwarted  passion,  that  pride,  that  madness 
of  mind  and  body — they  are  the  features  of  Moore's 
portrait  of  the  heretical  humanist,  broken  once  upon  the 
wheel  of  personal  revenge,  and  again  upon  the  wheel  ot 
an  incensed  Church.  Thus,  while  it  would  be  untrue  to 
say  that  Moore  has  given  you  the  Abelard  of  the  letters, 
it  is  true  that  he  has  given  you  something  at  least  of  the 
faint-traditioned  Abelard  whose  passions  were  abjured  and 
lamented  by  the  Abelard  of  the  letters.  Scholars,  of 
whom  I  am  not  even  the  least,  have  objected  against  the 


210 

unveracity  of  Moore's  history.  It  is  said,  to  use  a  small 
instance,  that  Heloise  could  not,  if  she  would,  turn  down 
the  leaves  of  Fulbert's  Virgil  and  Ovid  and  the  rest ;  that 
the  beautiful  and  curious  missal  sent  from  Argenteuil  to 
the  Bishop  of  Lichfield  could  not  have  been  in  existence 
when  Heloise  stood  admiring  it  after  her  parting  from 
Abelard ;  and  even  that  the  friars,  in  whose  guise  Abelard 
led  Heloise  from  her  home,  had  not  then  made  their 
appearance  in  European  history.  Moore  promptly  answered 
contentions  such  as  these  when  suggested  by  his  reviewers  ; 
his  answer  being  not  that  he  knew  that  there  were 
anachronisms  and  that  they  were  immaterial — a  quite 
simple  and  admissible  answer — but  that  there  were  no 
substantial  anachronisms ;  an  answer  (he  still  adds  to  it 
by  repetition)  which  scholars,  I  believe,  have  gently 
declined  to  admit.  The  point  remains  a  slight  one,  save 
in  so  far  as  Moore's  denial  illuminates  the  tenacity  with 
which  he  will  cling  to  any  position  in  which  he  happens 
to  have  been  opposed. 

And  after  the  scholar,  the  less  positive  literary  critic 
may  object  to  certain  passages,  saying  that  such  a  phrase 
as,  *  The  world  within  us  has  been  enlarged,  horizons 
have  been  put  back,'  comes  oddly  from  a  twelfth-century 
conversation,  even  when  the  speaker  is  the  great 
philosopher  himself ;  and  saying,  again,  that  the  repetition 
of  'the  grey  idealistic  eyes'  of  Heloise  sounds  no  less 
oddly  in  scrupulous  ears.  He  will  say  that  if  there  is  any 
tediousness  in  this  long  narrative,  it  comes  with  the 
introduction  of  the  Courts  of  Love  and  the  elaboration  of 
scenes  which  seem  but  tiresome  anticipations  of  the 
eighteenth  century — a  twelfth-century  Fete  Galante. 

But  when  scholar  and  critic  have  said  what  they  would 
upon  such  points,  there  are  far  more  vital  things  to 
remember.  For  our  present  purpose  it  is  useful  to 
observe  the  author  revealing  himself,  in  his  preferences 
and  mental   habits,  almost   as   clearly   in   this   historical 


211 

romance  as  in  Esther  Waters  and  The  Lake.  It  is  himself 
that  he  portrays  when  he  says,  'It  seems  to  me  that 
afterwards  I  talked  to  everybody  who  would  listen  to  me, 
Abelard  answered  ;  taking  pleasure  in  the  argument  for 
the  sake  of  it,  caring  very  little  which  side  I  took,  my 
pleasure  being  to  quicken  dead  minds,  to  awaken  thought; 
for  the  world,  it  seems  to  me,  is  sloughing  its  skin  of 
centuries  very  slowly.'  And  again,  'I  think  thou  art 
sorry,  Heloise,  that  I  am  so  immodest  a  man.  And  if 
that  thought  come  into  thy  mind  I  cannot  blame  thee  for 
it,  for  it's  often  come  into  mine.  Time  and  again  I  have 
tried  to  check  myself,  to  conform.  ...  It  may  be,  too, 
that  the  time  has  come  for  me  to  make  my  peace  with 
the  world,  for  one  of  our  oldest  proverbs  is,  that  an  old 
monkey  pleases  nobody.  But  can  we  change  ourselves  ?  ' 
The  very  voice  is  heard,  the  hand  seen  waving,  and  you 
understand  how  hard  it  is  even  for  the  imaginative  mind 
to  be  wholly  lost  in  its  creation.  As  clear  is  the  hint  of 
the  author  in  the  infrequent  coarseness,  in  the  wanton- 
ness that  echoes  earlier  offences — 'Thou  wilt  not  chide 
me  if  I  spend  part  of  to-morrow  with  a  certain  knight  ? 
she  said  to  me.  ...  It  has  fallen  out  that  Malberge  has 
wept  naked  in  my  arms,  telling  me  that  I  must  help  her 
to  obtain  some  man  who  has  caught  her  fancy,  reminding 
me  of  our  long  love,  her  tears  flowing  on  her  cheeks.' 
Who  shall  say  that  such  a  thing  has  never  happened  in 
the  twelfth  or  the  twentieth  century  ?  But  who  shall 
deny  that  such  a  thing  has  a  lamentable  attraction  for  our 
artist?  An  early  proclivity  has  looked  in  yet  again  and 
smirched  Heloise  and  Abelard  as  evilly  as  it  smirched 
Hail  and  Farewell.  More  welcomely  characteristic  is  our 
author's  free  indulgence  of  his  fondness  for  the  picaresque, 
nowhere  developed  more  beautifully  than  in  the  long 
flight  of  Heloise,  Abelard  and  Madelon  from  Paris  to 
Tours.  The  story  of  that  flight  draws  river-like  through 
eighty  pages  of  this  prolonged  pastoral,  and  the  note  is 


212 

repeated  in  other  wanderings  and  other  stories,,  to  recur 
last  of  all  with  a  new  solemnity  in  the  final  journey  and 
final  parting  of  the  lovers  in  a  world  where  happiness  and 
unhappiness  are  but  the  accidents  of  unresting  travel. 

And  another  habit,  the  inveterate  habit  of  portraying 
contemporaries,  is  surely  disclosed  in  such  an  outline  as 
that  of  Sister  Angela,  with  ^  round  almost  foolish  eyes, 
dragging  mouth  and  drooping  chin.  In  her  face  was  the 
simplicity  of  the  deer,  and  not  even  the  nun's  habit  could 
hide  the  gracefulness  of  her  long  arms  and  slender  hands. 
Heloise  expected  a  stupid  woman  to  reveal  herself,  but  an 
intelligence  began  to  appear — a  fitful,  disconnected  in- 
telligence that  broke  into  the  conversation  and  then  left 
it  as  abruptly,  putting  thoughts  into  Heloise's  mind  of 
animals  she  had  seen  at  one  moment  eager  to  claim 
human  companionship  and  then,  wearying  suddenly  of  it, 
returning  into  themselves  without  apparent  reason.'  The 
type  is  common,  but  the  instance  veraciously  chosen.  It 
occurs  in  the  scene  of  the  return  of  Heloise  to  her  old 
convent,  and  that,  too,  is  an  example  of  the  simple 
fondness  of  Moore's  mind  for  a  return  to  old  acquaintance  ; 
for  the  convent  of  Argenteuil  is  the  convent  of  Sister 
Teresa,  the  inhabitants  are  almost  the  same  inhabitants, 
the  musical  preoccupation  is  the  same.  One  feature  that 
mars  Sister  Teresa  is  happily  lacking  in  the  story  of 
Argenteuil — the  vulgarity  which  Evelyn  Innes  so  potently 
distilled  into  Sister  Teresa.  It  is  nowhere  to  be  found  in 
the  later  story. 

Moore's  old  preferences  are  betrayed  again  in  the 
general,  or  generalized,  picture  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
which  Heloise  and  Ahelard  slowly  unfolds.  What  he  sees 
in  that  obscure,  passionate  period  is  priestly  intrigue  and 
a  universal  sensualism  expressed  in  the  traditions  of 
trouv^res  and  the  Courts  of  Love  ;  and  the  least  profound 
of  readers  will  be  sure  that  such  simple  generalizations 
are    not    exhaustive.      Candour,    however,   demands    an 


213 

exception  being  remarked,  namely,  the  descent  of  a 
religious  madness  upon  the  world,  described  in  the 
apparition  of  a  spurious  Jesus  to  Heloise's  child,  and  the 
demoralizing  frenzy  that  swept  the  convent  at  the  same 
time  and  preluded  its  destruction.  An  enemy  hath  done 
this,  might  well  be  the  cry  of  a  pious  churchman  of  the 
twelfth  or  the  twentieth  century ;  for  horror,  quiet, 
simple,  unbearable,  swells  the  tide  of  the  story  and 
culminates  in  the  disappearance  of  Heloise's  child.  Astro- 
labe. Of  Astrolabe  it  is  a  joy  to  speak.  His  name  is 
historical,  but  all  else  in  him  is  pure  and  high  imagination 
and  memory.  The  absence  of  children  in  most  of  Moore's 
work  will  have  been  noticed  by  his  readers,  but  Astrolabe 
is  a  lovely  child  in  whom  the  genius  of  life  is  radiant.  .  .  . 
Part  of  imagination,  I  repeat,  and  part  of  memory  has 
Astrolabe  been  created.  '  I  have  to  tell  the  reader  that 
he  was  of  an  amiable  and  happy  disposition,  a  docile  child, 
yet  a  wilful  one.  .  .  .  Why  Nature  should  have  given  him 

such  witty  eyes '     That  is  not  a  description  of  Heloise's 

son,  tragically  swallowed  up  in  the  children's  crusade,  but 
of  the  small  George  Moore  himself;  but  it  describes 
Astrolabe  perfectly.  Strange  is  it  that  when  so  many 
writers  of  our  time  have  proved  how  easy  it  is  to  write 
affectedly  or  absurdly*  of  children,  the  writer  who  has  so 
often  been  dismissed  as  affected  should  almost  alone  have 
created  the  natural  and  beloved  child. 

HSlo'ise  and  Abelard  has  been  called  monotonous,  and  if 
that  term  be  meant  merely  as  an  equivalent  to  monotoned, 
it  can  be  admitted.  Save  for  the  troubadour  element,  of 
which  there  is  an  excess,  there  is  no  tediousness,  and 
though  the  narrative  flows,  as  I  have  said,  like  a  river 
wandering  slowly  through  willow-hemmed  meads,  it  flows 
in  an  atmosphere  of  light  and  space  and  sun  and  shadow. 
Sometimes  it  darkens,  and  tragic  sadness  tosses  the  waves 
of  the  river,  as  in  the  meeting  of  wife  and  husband  after 
many  years'  separation  and  silence.     With  the  suddenness 


2U 

and  sadness  of  an  apparition  Abelard  comes,  and  Heloise, 
prepared  only  by  her  perpetual  thoughts  and  ache,  scarce 
sees  him  : — 

^They  brought  back  some  small  coins  every  day, 
and  these  Heloise  was  counting  when  the  door  of  the 
kitchen  opened  and  a  monk  crossed  the  threshold 
and  stood,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  On  seeing  that 
she  did  not  recognize  him,  for  he  stood  against  the 
light,  he  raised  his  hood,  and  the  surprise  was  so 
great  that  for  a  moment  she  felt  like  dying,  and 
leaned  against  the  wall  gasping,  to  fall  into  Abelard's 
arms  at  last.  Neither  could  speak,  nor  were  words 
needed  ;  it  was  enough  for  each  to  know  that  each 
was  with  the  other.  So  thou  hast  come  at  last,  broke 
from  her  sighing  lips.' 

It  is  painful  to  read  what  follows,  for  the  sadness  that 
purifies  or  destroys  great  passion  is  here. 

Moore's  aim  in  writing  Heloise  and  Abelard,  so  far  as, 
after  writing  it,  he  is  able  to  define  his  aim,  was  to  make 
a  beautiful  book.  He  admits  having  attempted  this 
before,  and  curiously  instances  Evelyn  Innes  ;  but  he  freely 
adds  that  he  failed  there,  and  smiles  if  you  cordially  agree 
that  he  failed.  The  success  now  is  as  plain  as  was  the 
failure  then.  His  own  conception  of  a  beautiful  book 
(the  phrase  is  a  poor  one)  may  be  judged  by  his  constant 
preference  of  Marius  the  Epicurean  as  the  imaginative 
masterpiece  of  our  time;  and  if  I  do  not  share  this 
preference  quite  without  hesitation,  it  is  because  Heloise 
and  Abelard  rivals  Pater's  success.  An  imaginative 
masterpiece  cannot  be  achieved  without  a  mastery  of 
English  prose ;  and  here  is  Moore's  excellence.  To 
recount  the  various  virtues  of  Marius  which  are  not  to  be 
found  in  Moore's  book,  would  be  as  foolish  as  to  note  the 
fine  qualities  of  Heloise  which  are  wanting  in  Pater's 
philosophical  romance.  I  shall  not  attempt  it,  but  will 
only  compare  what  is  comparable,  and  say  that  Moore's 


215 

romance  has  as  surely  as  Pater's — no,  a  little  more  surely 
— the  note  of  the  purest  English  prose.  The  striking 
phrase,  the  eloquent  cry,  the  prepared  effect,  are  not 
Moore's ;  but  his  are  a  thousand  passages,  or  rather  his  is 
one  prolonged  lovely  passage  breathing  the  music  and 
reflecting  the  motion  of :  '  Grief  hushes  like  a  wind  and 
breaks  forth  again  in  the  mind  like  a  wind ; '  and  : — 

'  I  am  afraid  of  the  forest,  Heloise  said,  and  Abelard 
sought  to  calm  her  fears,  saying  :  The  forest  is  wonder- 
ful. Listen  to  the  silence,  for  silence  in  the  forest 
is  different  from  any  other.  But  the  forest  is  never 
silent,  Heloise  interposed ;  it  is  always  mumbling  to 
itself.  I  am  afraid.  Shall  we  go  back  to  Madelon, 
he  asked,  or  sit  here  among  the  ferns.''  And  in 
answer  to  her  question  if  he  were  afraid,  he  answered 
that  he  was  not,  which  was  barely  the  truth,  for  with 
the  decline  of  the  light  the  forest  seemed  to  have 
put  off  its  casual  associations  with  man  and  to  have 
returned  to  itself,  a  strange,  remote  self,  nearer  to 
beasts  than  to  man.  We  are  all  aliens  to  the  forest, 
he  said,  all  save  charcoal-burners  and  wolf-hunters.* 

Pleasant  is  it  to  be  able  to  record  such  a  satisfaction  as 
Heloise  and  Abelard  yields.  The  book  is  the  work  of  a 
man  of  mature,  unageing  mind.  Sometimes,  as  he  will 
acknowledge,  he  is  touched  by  the  fear  that  his  powers 
as  an  imaginative  artist  are  declining,  for  that  decline 
must  come,  and  time  brings  it  nearer.  One  day  age, 
that  has  approached  as  yet  with  such  friendly  gentle- 
ness, will  step  more  swiftly,  chilling  the  activity  of  his 
mind  and  greying  every  bright  hue  ;  and,  worst  of  all, 
he  may  not  know  it  except  by  the  report  of  others, 
which  he  will  be  both  ready  and  reluctant  to  believe. 
I  am  glad  that  such  a  report  is  not  mine.  That  it  has 
been  sounded  by  certain  reviewers  is  due,  I  am  willing 
to  suppose,  to  the  alleged  necessity  of  prompt  notice 
being  given  to  a  book  which  can  only  be  valued  truly 
if  it  is  valued  reflectively,  and  pondered  over  with  the 


216 

familiarity  that  deepens  the  satisfaction  of  an  exquisite 
water-colour  at  which  we  look  so  often  for  what  we  know 
we  shall  find.  Heldise  and  Abe  lard  is  a  picture  hung  in 
the  mind ; — time  may  establish  or  diminish  its  beauty, 
and  as  yet  it  would  be  stupid  to  prophesy;  but  the 
immediate  quickening  of  the  spirit  which  it  provokes  is 
like  the  quickening  that  can  be  remembered  in  those 
first  apprehensions  of  things  which  have  grown  into 
permanent  delights. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   WANDERING   MIND 


Were  I  to  live  againe  it  should  be  as  I  have  already- 
lived.  I  neither  deplore  what  is  past,  nor  dread 
what  is  to  come  ;  and  if  I  be  not  deceived,  the  in- 
ward parts  have  neerly  resembled  the  outward.  .  .  . 
Each  thing  hath  beene  carried  in  season.  I  have 
seen  the  leaves,  the  blossomes,  and  the  fruit. — 
Montaigine. 


The  years  have  added  a  little  fulness  to  the  face,  but  the 
face  is  still  that  of  the  small  boy  who  looks  at  you  from 
the  new  edition  of  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  and  upon 
whom  his  thoughts  fall  so  fondly  now.  Across  the  deeps 
and  shallows  of  six  decades  he  bends  towards  the  early 
slim  figure  with  the  long  nose  and  witty  eyes,  pleased 
that  a  resemblance  to  his  present  looks  should  appear, 
and  teasing  himself  with  speculations  upon  the  equal 
constancy  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  characters.  It  is 
no  more  wonderful  that  the  visible  and  invisible  charac- 
ters should  persist  than  that  they  should  vanish,  but  the 
persistence  gives  room  for  a  complacency  which  is  wholly 
amiable. 

But  there  is  change  in  likeness.  The  pleasant  mildness 
of  the  child's  face  may  be  found  in  the  man's,  just  as  the 
fall  of  the  child's  hair  is  followed  sixty  years  after  in  the 
fall  of  the  white  hair ;  but  the  eye  changes,  the  mouth 
moves,  the  face  in  a  moment  becomes  other  than  it  was. 
Often  the  look  is  broad,  mild,  contented  ;  the  cheeks  droop 
in  their  fulness,  the  mouth  hangs  a  little  open,  the  harsh- 
ness of  the  voice  is  dulled,  the  hand  weaves  a  flowing 
pattern,  and  there  is  a  general  air  of  softness  and  ease. 
Swiftly  falls  the  change  at  the  challenge  of  a  word,  a 
memory;  the  eye  gleams  bright,  though  the  brows  be 
but  faintly  gathered ;  the  lines  in  the  face  deepen,  the 
lower  lip  hangs  heavy  beneath  the  white  upper  lip,  the 
voice  at  once  is  strident — the  mildness  of  the  sheep  is 
lost  in  the  sharpness  of  the  hound,  alert  to  defend  and 
attack.  The  note  of  expostulation  is  frequent  as  the  voice 
rises  and  flows,  belying  the  assertion  of  indifference  that 
he  will  make,  for  instance,  if  his  thought  wanders  to  such 
injuries   as    the    banning  of   his   novels   by   the   foolish 

219 


220 

libraries;  but  if  he  returns  to  his  story  or  speaks,  as  he 
will  do  for  an  eloquent  hour,  of  his  own  work  achieved 
or  planned,  or  of  Shelley  or  Pater,  his  face  grows  serene 
again  and  the  whole  man  sits  at  ease. 

The  small-boned,  fleshly  body,  sunken  into  perfect 
immobility,  fills  completely  the  low  chair,  but  the  head 
and  eyes  are  never  still.  He  loves  to  talk  of  poetry,  of 
Poems  and  Ballads  and  Morris's  early  work,  to  which  he 
returns  in  a  renewing  ecstasy;  but  save  in  a  French 
exercise,  he  is  no  longer  tempted  to  write  verse.  He 
has  no  subject  for  poetry,  and  to  please  him  poetry  must 
be  objective ;  the  introspection  of  modern  lyrical  poets 
gives  him  no  delight — it  is  for  subject  and  story  that 
he  cries.  Milton,  for  all  his  epical  narration,  does  not 
greatly  attract  him,  although  the  superbness  of  style  is 
beyond  dispute ;  indeed,  he  hates  such  vast  and  isolated 
types  as  Beelzebub,  and  cannot  endure  the  mediaeval 
conception  of  a  boiling  hell,  which  Milton  so  simply 
admitted.  But  the  beautiful  pastoral  of  Adam  and  Eve 
in  the  Garden  has  a  persistent  charm.  That  charm  is 
wanting  when  he  reads  Keats,  transpiring  only  through 
the  Miltonic  verse  of  Hyperion  : — Shelley,  in  fact,  seems 
to  have  spoiled  him  for  Keats.  Beautiful  to  him,  like 
a  spring  bubbling  from  a  cool  and  sunny  hill,  is  Shelley's 
Hymn  to  Pan.  Even  in  translation  the  poet's  gift  is 
magical,  and  the  whole  of  Shelley  remains  readable, 
save  A  Vision  of  the  Sea ;  and  his  fondness  does  not 
seem  to  Moore  inconsistent  with  his  demand  that  poetry 
should  be  objective,  Epipsyckidion  itself,  and  the  Stanzas 
Written  in  Dejection j  for  all  their  lyrical  isolation,  being 
'about'  something  other  than  the  personal  experience 
of  the  poet.  Scarce  anything  later  than  Morris  or 
Meredith  can  touch  his  affections,  and  even  Morris  fails 
in  a  critical  test,  for  he  tried  too  many  things.  For 
Rossetti  he  can  find  no  fondness  hidden  anywhere,  not 
even  in  the  memories  of  youth,  his  poetry  seeming  too 


221 

artificial  and  wanting  the  sweetness  of  Christina's.  The 
early  English  lyric  pleases  him  by  its  innocence  and 
religious  gaiety,  and  happy  absence  of  introspection. 
Innocence  always  touches  an  innocence  within  him. 

His  indifference  to  recent  poets,  to  the  most  honoured 
among  them,  is  complete  and  undisguised.  Nor  is  his 
admiration  of  contemporary  prose  writers  very  much 
more  liberal.  Of  none  is  his  love  so  warm  and  prompt 
as  for  a  few  earlier  authors :  none  competes  with  Landor 
for  his  affection,  no  other  approaches  Pater.  Moore  is  not 
a  great  reader  but  he  remembers  what  he  reads,  and  is 
loyal  to  his  early  intellectual  loves  in  spite  of  scores  of 
years  flowing  by.  He  is  no  less  loyal  to  his  prejudices, 
and  the  reader  of  Avowals  will  scarcely  want  an  assurance 
that  the  opinions  so  exquisitely  enlarged  there,  the  sugges- 
tions so  adroitly  insinuated,  the  judgments  so  weightily 
announced,  are  not  transient  shadows  of  a  shifting  mind, 
but  the  last  expression  of  an  aesthetic  and  moral  attitude 
which  has  deepened  within  him  through  seventy  years 
of  change.  Speak  of  Landor,  and  he  rises  from  his  chair, 
opens  a  volume  of  the  Imaginary  Conversations  and,  at  the 
invitation  of  a  word  or  look,  reads  The  Maid  of  Orleans  and 
Agnes  Sorel  or  Bossuet  and  the  Duchess  de  Foidanges  : — slowly, 
clearly,  and  with  something  of  a  child's  manner  of  reading 
straightforwardly  to  a  listener.  He  has  reflected  a  little 
sharply  upon  Stevenson — the  preface  to  Lewis  Seymour 
modifies  the  earlier  derogation — but  he  will  no  longer 
deplore — nay,  will  rather  defend — Stevenson's  English, 
reserving  his  dislike  for  the  stories.  He  thinks  himself 
perhaps  better  at  stories  than  Stevenson,  but  worse  at 
the  critical  article ;  forgetting  Stevenson's  last  story  on 
the  one  hand,  and  Avowals  on  the  other.  And  he  forgets, 
too,  that  Stevenson,  a  year  or  two  his  elder,  died  while 
as  yet  Esther  Waters  was  the  latest  and  best  of  his  own 
books;  and  a  comparison  between  these  bright  disso- 
ciates  in    1894    would   have    led   to   another   conclusion 


222 

than  is  inevitable  now.  .  .  .  Nevertheless  our  author, 
although  preoccupied  vi^ith  his  own  work,  is  very  far 
from  being  obstinately  satisfied  with  it.  There  is  a 
curious  petty  strife  in  him  of  the  childlike  and  the 
masculine.  No  man  depends  more  entirely  upon  his 
instinct,  yet  no  man  mistrusts  it  more.  He  may  seem 
arrogant  when  he  speaks  of  another,  but  when  his  own 
art  is  touched  he  is  strangely  pliable  and  submissive ;  and 
hence  you  become  wary  and  reluctant  to  make  even  a 
minute  suggestion,  lest  he  too  hastily  adopt  it. 

Sometimes  he  is  guilty  of  a  pleasant  excess  of  praise — 
as  when  he  says  of  Stevenson,  again,  that  he  possessed 
the  very  model  of  a  perfect  style  of  a  kind.  Travels  with  a 
Donkey  being  as  absolute  an  achievement  in  prose  as  such 
a  book  can  be ;  but  a  qualification  will  follow  and  you 
perceive  him  in  two  minds  about  the  unhappily  lost  artist. 
Hard  on  the  heels  of  the  amateur  emigrant  comes  Mr. 
Max  Beerbohm,  whose  writing  seems  to  Moore  as  good  as 
Lamb's.  That  perfection  of  small  prose,  which  is  like  the 
rarest  courtesy  of  language,  pleases  him  by  its  lightness  and 
brightness.  A  kind  and  queer  irrelevance  is  heard  when 
he  says  that  he  would  not  care  to  leave  Max  on  '  Servants ' 
lying  about  in  his  house,  for  fear  that  if  a  servant  read  in 
it  she  might  think  it  superior  and  inconsiderate.  ...  I 
have  a  wandering  mind,  he  says,  and  caprice  is  often  at 
his  elbow,  breathing  new  phrases  for  old  prejudices,  as 
it  is  present  in  the  conversation  of  many  less  exacting 
readers  ;  but  he  burns  not  the  faintest  pinch  of  incense  to 
convention,  and  prefers  his  own  thoughts  to  the  thoughts 
of  others.  Perhaps  it  is  more  correct  to  say  that  when  he 
talks  of  writers  and  the  art  of  writing  he  forgets  all  but 
his  own  thoughts,  and  is  simply  unaware  of  conventional 
appreciations. 

The  case  is  altered  when  he  speaks  of  men  and  women, 
for  he  will  sometimes  show  an  absurdly  youthful  fondness 
for  thrusting  at  conventions.     Yet  even  then  he  shocks 


223 

not  only  because  he  loves  to  watch  the  vexed  or  chill 
stare,  but  also  as  a  protest  against  what  is  vaguely 
called  the  provincial,  the  philistine,  the  suburban,  the 
mechanical.  He  would  fain  see  the  world  saved  (in  the 
spirit  of  the  Confessions  of  1888)  not  from  its  sins  but  from 
its  narrow  virtues,  its  coldness,  its  formalism;  he  would 
fain  see  men  going  on  a  pilgrimage  again,  not  to  Rome 
but  Touraine,  or  wandering  on  to  no  goal  but  seeking 
only  the  joy  of  wandering.  Humour  touches  his  lips 
with  an  odd  smile,  and  the  instinct  for  exaggeration 
seizes  at  times  upon  his  voice  and  gestures,  as  when  he 
is  enraged  at  an  ineffably  bad  cast  for  a  play — perhaps 
his  own.  'You  ask  me  what  I  think?'  he  cries.  'My 
dear  friend,  if  you  came  to  dine  with  me  and  I  gave  you 
a  lemon,  you  would  probably  eat  it  for  politeness ;  you 
might  even  eat  a  second  lemon  ;  but  if  I  gave  you  a  third, 
a  fourth,  a  fifth  lemon,  and  nothing  else,  you  would  get 
up  after  the  fifth  lemon  and  rush  out  of  the  house,  as  I'm 
rushing  out  of  your  theatre.'  He  will  tell  this  to  one  and 
another  with  the  growing  relish  of  a  repeated  revenge.  .  .  . 
Seldom  is  a  man  isolated  equally  by  reason  of  his  virtues 
and  his  faults  ;  but  this  is  Moore's  fate,  or  fond  choice. 
Alone  of  the  present  generation  he  indulges  himself  in 
the  humour  of  the  scandalous,  and  presents  to  the  amused 
but  critical  eyes  of  nineteen-twenty-two  the  spectacle  of 
an  utterly  devoted  artist  ridden  at  times  by  a  disreputable, 
outmoded  hag  misnamed  wit,  misnamed  freedom. 

'  At  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  hurrying  near ' 

And  Time  will  unseat  her  at  length,  and  leave  her 
withered  in  the  dust ;  but  I  lament  that  the  poor  victory 
should  be  reserved  to  Time.  Moore  bears  the  dignity 
of  his  art  in  his  bosom,  yet  cannot  see  how  oddly  it  is 
overborne  now  and  again  by  the  discreditable  hag.  That 
serene  dignity,  happily,  survives,  and  when  all  is  said  of 


224 

these  brief,  unadvised  subordinations,  the  finer  spirit  is 
found  unweakened.  It  is  hardly  a  moral  question  that 
is  touched  here.  Moore  has  assuredly  a  quick  concern 
with  that  universal  embarrassment  and  universal  stimu- 
lus, morality,  yet  not  with  morality  as  part  of  the 
social  order,  but  as  a  personal  and  restricted  problem. 
The  great  artist  and  Don  Juan,  he  declared  in  an  early 
book,  are  antagonistic.  In  his  own  work  there  is  not  the 
least  clinging  wisp  of  the  sociological  obsession  which 
darkens  over  vast  tracts  of  modern  prose  fiction ;  but 
there  is  a  very  sharp  sense  of  the  questions  that  beset  a 
man  and  a  woman  in  their  relations  with  one  another. 
To  put  it  loosely,  his  morality  is  not  philosophical,  nor 
even  falsely  philosophical,  but  strictly  experimental.  It 
is  not  so  much  that  he  hates  abstractions,  as  that  he 
cannot  breathe  the  air  of  abstractions,  needing  a  denser 
air  for  his  vigorous  mental  constitution. 

Apart  from  the  deliberate  and  the  innocent  presentation 
of  himself  in  a  long  list  of  books  it  is  proper  to  ask.  What 
has  George  Moore  given  to  English  literature  ?  Nineteen- 
fifty  will  disregard  the  judgment  of  nineteen- twenty-two, 
and  a  prophecy  is  apt  to  prove  a  jest;  and  hence  I  will 
not  presume  to  anticipate  wiser  opinions  or  the  stealthy 
fingering  of  decay,  nor  will  I  attempt  a  comparison  of 
Moore's  work  with  that  of  eminent  contemporaries.  But 
the  question  of  his  own  gift  is  irresistible. 

First  of  all,  then,  he  has  given  form  to  the  English 
novel,  Esther  Waters  (to  name  no  other  of  his  novels) 
making  a  considerable  claim  to  recognition  on  this  score. 
I  do  not  speak  of  his  method,  for  that  is  not  new ;  he 
follows  a  traditional  way,  using  a  single  thread  and  never 
attempting  the  complexities  of  alien  modes.  The  method 
of  Henry  James,  for  instance,  which  the  common  terms 
of  saturation  and  suffusion  so  clearly  suggest,  is  not  for 
Moore;  neither  does  he  attempt  methods  so  impossible 


225 

for  his  genius  as  those  of  The  Brothers  Karamazov  and 
Mort  de  Quelquun.  It  is  scarcely  a  virtue  that  he  refrains 
from  the  attempt,  for  the  psychology  of  his  novels  is 
so  simple  and  single-visioned  as  to  show  that  such 
intricacies  of  apprehension  are  for  him  repellent  as 
well  as  impossible.  His  own  method  gains  greatly  from 
the  care  with  which  he  has  developed  a  native  sense 
of  form.  His  contempt  for  others'  work,  considered 
under  this  aspect,  is  expressed  in  Avowals  and  is  too 
heedless  in  its  scope ;  and  were  his  mind  free  to  relish 
another  artist's  imaginations,  he  would  have  found  an 
exception  in  The  Return  of  the  Native,  to  choose  but 
one  of  several  examples.  Nevertheless  his  charge  that 
English  fiction  is  careless  in  shape  remains  substantially 
true,  and  so  far  as  the  contemporary  novel  has  been 
touched  by  any  beauty  of  form,  it  may  be  said  that 
Esther  Waters  has  been  the  model.  It  would  be  too 
exacting  to  ask  that  a  novel  should  be  as  rigidly  ordered 
as  a  sonnet,  but  we  may  ask  that,  like  the  verse  ot 
Paradise  Lost,  it  should  possess  without  quite  concealing 
a  shape  of  its  own  creation.  The  lesson  has  been  learned 
by  some  writers,  perhaps  by  all  who  are  capable  of  learn- 
ing, that  order  and  form  are  not  a  hindrance  to  the  literary 
artist,  any  more  than  straight  lines  to  an  architect.  And 
with  this  lesson  a  yet  simpler  one  is  intertwined — that 
neither  character  alone  nor  incident  alone  is  sufficient  for 
the  presentation  of  human  life  in  an  imaginative  shape. 
Moore  has  discovered  these  trite  notions  for  himself,  for 
all  that  he  knows  of  his  own  task  is  self-taught ;  and  thus, 
while  the  chief  influence  upon  current  prose  fiction  may 
be  that  of  Henry  James  or  Mr.  Hardy,  the  art  of  Moore's 
best  books  is  scarcely  less  conspicuous  as  an  example,  or 
a  reproach. 

Next,  he  has  so  dexterously  modified  an  old  form  as  to 
turn  it  virtually  into  a  new  one  in  his  autobiographical 
writings ;  making  grave  things  light,  using  mockery  and 
Q 


226 

malice  for  those  intellectual  revenges  which  the  very 
kindest  of  us  condone,  and  arming  his  prejudices  with 
such  satire  as  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries 
dearly  loved  to  sharpen.  In  the  decline  of  brush  and 
pencil,  he  has  redeemed  portraiture  from  gentleness  and 
made  butchery  a  pleasure.  The  art  of  caricature  is  not  a 
Christian  exercise,  and  Hail  and  Farewell  may  be  reckoned 
by  gentle  hearts  as  a  breach  in  the  defences  of  society ; 
but  the  difficulty  of  praising  it,  if  that  difficulty  exists,  is 
merely  a  contemporary  one,  and  a  later  generation  may 
very  readily  pardon  offences  which  it  does  not  feel,  and  be 
thankful  for  the  illumination  of  figures  which,  but  for  this 
maliciously  witty  light,  had  been  perhaps  quite  forgotten. 
The  reminiscent  narrative  has  been  of  service  to  our  subject 
in  another  way,  for  he  has  always  been  interested  in 
persons  more  than  in  ideas,  and  in  men  more  than  in 
women ;  hence  his  thoughts  have  been  most  brightly 
stimulated  by  the  friction  of  opposing  personalities.  This 
is  but  to  say  that  he  is  an  emotional  artist,  whose  intellect 
is  the  instrument  of  fondness  and  animosities ;  and 
wanting  that  friction — to  which  he  will  for  a  while  expose 
himself  readily  enough — he  is  lethargic  and  another  man 
than  the  author  of  Avowals.  .  .  .  The  art  of  writing  cannot 
be  taught,  least  of  all  an  innovating  refinement  of  art  such 
as  the  musing,  acute  reminiscence  of  the  autobiography, 
and  I  do  not  refer  to  Moore's  achievement  now  except  to 
note  it  as  his  own  and  commend  it  to  the  haunted  eyes  of 
despair. 

But  to  say  all  this  is  perhaps  to  speak  superfluously, 
since  it  is  implied  in  whatever  remains  to  be  said  concern- 
ing George  Moore's  prose.  I  have  already  referred  in 
so  many  places  in  this  book  to  the  qualities  of  that 
prose,  from  its  first  crudities  to  its  slowly  unfolding 
ease,  its  maturity  of  flower,  fruit  and  shade ;  and 
listening  to  his  prose  and  remembering  that  of  his  con- 
temporaries, a  prime  distinction  is  observed — that  Moore's 


227 

is  written  from  and  for  the  ear,  while  the  prose  of  most 
others  is  written  from  the  eye.  The  thing  heard  rather 
than  the  thing  seen  is  our  author's  prompter,  and  hence 
his  rhythm  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  contemporary 
English.  And  without  extravagance,  surely,  one  might 
add  that  it  is  not  alone  the  heard  melody,  but  the  sweeter 
unheard  melody — voice  of  a  bodiless  bird,  breath  of  an 
immaterial  landscape — that  steals  out  of  the  intricate 
simplicities  and  shallows  of  his  style. 

Comparison  with  other  writers  is  a  disagreeable  thing  to 
attempt,  although  it  would  serve  to  mark  George  Moore's 
place  a  little  more  sharply.  It  is  a  place  which  scarcely 
more  than  one  or  two  contemporaries  can  dispute  with 
him.  Mr.  Conrad  suffers  from  the  penalty  which  is  laid  on 
a  writer  who  uses  another  tongue  than  his  own,  for  his 
genius,  that  has  led  him  into  a  romantic  world  dominated 
by  an  august  morality,  looming  huge  and  dark  as  Arabian 
djinn  over  a  bewildered  pilgrim,  cannot  teach  him  the 
simplicities  of  the  English  language,  or  win  that  heritage 
which  childhood  alone  receives.  Henry  James  and  Mr. 
Hardy,  Mr.  Kipling  and  Mr.  Hudson  are  masters  of  an 
instrument  how  diversely  played,  following  what  clamorous 
or  whispered  thought !  Comparison  between  them,  or 
between  them  and  George  Moore,  would  yield  small 
pleasure  now ;  and  thus  I  am  compelled  to  look  at 
random  and  ask  whether,  for  example,  this  passage 
which  a  leading  critical  journal  lately  crowned  with  its 
praise  is  worthy  of  comparison  with  the  style  of  Hail  and 
Farewell,  The  Brook  Kerith  and  Avowals.  The  three  books 
are  named  because  the  prose  of  one  is  not  the  prose  of  the 
others — the  dreamlike  melody  of  The  Brook  Kerith  being 
unheard  in  Avowals,  and  the  graver  phrasing  of  Avowals 
adding  power  to  the  light  of  the  trilogy. 

The  following  is  the  passage  praised  by  The  Times : — 

*  Much  thought  has  been  expended,  during  the  war 
and  since,  on  the  fittest  way  of  honouring  the  dead. 


228 

They  will  not  come  back,  and  we,  who  remember 
them  and  think  of  them,  like  to  believe  that  they 
will  always  be  remembered.  But  let  us  be  just  to 
them.  They  did  not  ask,  when  they  gave  their  lives, 
that  their  memories  should  be  preserved.  There 
have  been  nations  (there  are  some  to-day)  who  make 
divinities  of  fame  and  glory.  That  has  never  been 
the  habit  of  the  English  people.  Our  dead  were 
content  to  save  England.  If  they  could  see  Oxford  as 
Oxford  is  to-day,  with  the  war  won,  they  would  be 
pleased  with  that  living  memorial.  Even  if  they  had 
failed  to  save  England  they  well  knew  (though  no 
one  can  explain  it)  that  their  sacrifice  had  an  absolute 
value,  and  was  not  made  in  vain.  We  grope  for  some 
sign  or  token  of  them,  and  here  and  there,  far  away 
from  the  graves  where  they  lie,  we  find  it.  Their 
virtue,  which  was  a  live  thing,  cannot  be  engraved  on 
stone  or  printed  in  a  book,  but  it  still  is  here,  to  be 
sought  for  among  other  live  things.  The  words  Courage 
and  Duty — or  rather,  the  ideas  of  courage  and  duty, 
for  Englishmen  use  the  words  very  sparingly — are 
enriched  by  a  great  bequest.  Fellowship  and  friend- 
ship mean  more  to-day  than  they  meant  before  the 
war.  The  air  that  children  breathe,  even  when  they 
are  at  play,  comes  to  them  tonic,  from  the  heights. 
These  things  are  the  touch  of  live  spirits,  present  or 
absent.' 

The  use  of  certain  unwelcome  words,  the  staccato 
sentences,  the  absence  of  rhythm,  the  faintness  of  the 
pulse,  are  plain  faults  on  a  first  reading  and  harassing  if 
another  reading  is  endured.  I  do  not  urge  that  Moore's 
prose  is  the  sole  kind  of  good  prose,  and  that  other  subjects 
than  his  cannot  be  presented  save  in  his  later,  beautiful 
manner;  but  to  contrast  the  paragraph  just  cited  with 
almost  any  page  in  those  of  his  books  to  which  I  have  just 
referred,  is  to  be  aware  of  such  a  contrast  as  that  of  pump 
and  waterfall. 

The  price  paid  by  the  artist  for  his  art  is  the  concern  ot 


229 

himself  alone.  I  have  heard  it  objected,  in  a  specious 
antinomy,  that  it  is  better  to  live  a  full  life  than  to  write  a 
fine  book ;  and  without  pursuing  the  subtleties  of  this 
misconception,  which  was  applied  by  the  misconceiver  to 
George  Moore  himself,  it  is  worth  while  to  make  a  plain 
remark  upon  it.  The  objection  in  the  present  case  was 
expressed  to  the  effect  that  the  sacrifice  of  a  man's  personal 
life  for  the  sake  of  his  art  is  to  be  deplored,  and  that  an 
artist  who  prefers,  for  example,  isolation  to  marriage, 
so  that  he  may  make  his  calling  and  election  sure,  is 
choosing  amiss.  '  Choose,  rather,  a  full  life  ! '  How  much 
of  conscious  choice  and  how  much  of  unconscious  tendency 
is  involved  in  this  isolation  I  have  no  means  or  anxiety  to 
discover  ;  but  the  fallacy  of  the  suggestion  is  clear,  for  is 
not  the  imaginative  life  a  full  life.?  And  is  there  a  full 
life  which  is  not  imaginative  .'*  Pity  that  Providence  forbade 
the  exercise  of  one  joy  except  by  the  forfeit  of  another ! 
To  live  ten  lives  a  day,  and  to  live  again  the  intimate 
personal  life  and  tangled  social  life  of  marriage,  is  a 
problem  set  for  some  men  in  all  ages ;  the  Church  has 
solved  it  in  one  way  and  again  in  another,  and  the  creative 
spirit  that  inhabits  a  man  here  and  there  urges  him  into  a 
solution  or  evasion  of  the  same  kind.  I  cannot  think  it  a 
narrow,  waning  life  that  is  lived  in  the  mind  and  expressed 
in  stone,  melody,  line  or  word.  Born  of  the  imagination 
and  inheriting  the  ages,  the  expressive  creation  fulfils  the 
dream  of  a  prolonged  consciousness,  the  instinct  of  main- 
taining in  another  the  life  that  fades  in  one's  fiery  brain. 
It  becomes  itself  an  instrument  and  a  symbol — an  in- 
strument of  the  mind's  desire,  a  symbol  of  the  whole 
range  of  human  possibility. 

And  more  simply,  the  justification — if  the  term  be  not 
an  impertinence — is  found  in  that  for  which  the  imagined 
sacrifice  is  made.  Of  this  it  is  permissible  for  the  specula- 
tive critic  to  speak,  but  of  the  artist's  private  satisfaction 
the  artist  alone  can  speak.     Instead,  however,  of  asking 


230 

George  Moore  to  plead  for  himself,  it  is  more  decent  to 
listen  to  his  contemporary,  Samuel  Butler : — 

'  The  world  resolves  itself  into  two  great  classes — 
those  who  hold  that  honour  after  death  is  better 
worth  having  than  any  honour  a  man  can  get  and 
know  anything  about,  and  those  who  doubt  this ;  to 
my  mind,  those  who  hold  it,  and  hold  it  firmly,  are 
the  only  people  worth  thinking  about.  .  .   . 

*  As  for  my  own  position,  if  I  say  the  things  I  want 
to  say  without  troubling  myself  about  the  public, 
why  should  I  grumble  at  the  public  for  not  troubling 
about  me  ? ' 

Contradictions  flourish  in  the  bosom  of  George  Moore, 
and  his  indifference  has  not  always  been  perfect ;  but 
beneath  the  superficial  querulity  there  is  a  steadier  disdain, 
and  beneath  the  disdain  a  serene  pride,  and  beneath  all  a 
humble  human  thankfulness  that  he  has  been  called  to 
make  something  which  may  endure  for  a  moment  in  a 
fleeting  and  sensitive  world. 


GEORGE    MOORE 

A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

[1878-1921] 

BY 

HENRY  DANIELSON 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  present  bibliography  of  the  first  editions  of  the 
writings  of  Mr.  George  Moore  has  been  compiled  with 
the  object  of  satisfying  the  needs  of  the  collector.  At 
the  same  time  it  presents  a  chronological  survey  of  Mr. 
George  Moore's  literary  activities  in  volume  form  from 
1878  to  1921. 

Those  interested  in  the  values  of  the  works  herein 
mentioned  will  find,  at  the  end  of  the  bibliography,  this 
aspect  touched  upon. 

I  must  express  my  indebtedness  to  Sir  Lucas  King  for 
his  generosity  in  lending  me  his  copy  of  Martin  Luther  ; 
and  my  thanks  are  also  due  to  Mr.  T.  Werner  Laurie  for 
his  kindness  in  allowing  me  to  inspect  many  volumes  in 
his  collection. 

H.  D. 

March  llth,  1922. 


(1) 

Flowers  of  Passion  :  1878 

Flowers  of  Passion.  |  [French  rule]  \  By  |  George  Moore.  | 
[French  rule]  \  London  :  |  Provost  &  Co.,  36,  Henrietta 
Street,  |  Covent  Garden.  |  [J  line]  \  1878. 

Pott  4to  ;  pp.  iv  +  116,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as  above 
(verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  11]  j  Table  of  Contents.,  pp.  [ill, 
iv  (incorrectly  paged  ii)  ]  ;  Dedication  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [1,  2];  Text,  pp.  [3J-114.  Pp.  [115,  116]  are 
occupied  by  advertisements  of  Provost  S^  Co.'s  \  Recent 
Poetical  Works.  There  is  an  Errata  slip  (4  lines  with 
heading)  pasted  between  the  Title-page  and  Table  of 
Contents.     There  is  no  printer's  imprint. 

Issued  in  black  cloth,  lettered  up  the  back  in  gilt  as 
follows  :  Flowers  of  Passion  In  centre  of  front  cover. 
In  gilt,  skull  and  cross-bones  with  leaves  and  lyre  with 
broken  strings  and  leaves.  Back  cover  blank.  Gilt 
edges.  Cream  end-papers.  (Some  copies  were  Issued 
with  plain  edges.) 

(2) 

Martin  Luther  :  1879 

Martin  Luther :  |  A  Tragedy,  |  In  Five  Acts.  |  By  | 
George  Moore,  |  Author  of  "  Flowers  of  Passion,"  | 
and  I  Bernard  Lopez,  |  Collaborateur  de  |  Scribe,  Mery, 
Auguste  I  Lefranc,  Theophile  Gautier,  |  Alexandre 
Dumas  pere,  Victor  |  Sejour,  Alboize,  Charles  Des- 
noyer,  |  Gerard  de  Nerval,  Dupenty,  Laurencin,  | 
Grange,  Hippolyte  Cogniard,  Lelarge,  |  Delacour, 
Varin,  |  Charles   Narrey,   Rochefort  |  pere,   Dumanoir, 


236 

Clairville     et     Saint-Georges.  |     [A    line]  \  London : 
Remington  and  Co.,  |  5,  Arundel  Street,  Strand,  W.C.   | 
[A  line]  I  1879.  |  [All  Rights  Reserved.] 

Crown  octavo;  pp.  xii4-  180,  consisting  of  a  Leaf  (not 
reckoned  in  pagination)  with  blank  recto,  and  the 
following  note,  printed  within  a  thin  one-line  border, 
in  centre  of  verso :  [a  fist]  Managers  desirous  of 
securing  the  Acting  \  Rights  of  this  Play  should  apply  to 
Messrs.  \  Remington  ^  Co.,  who  have  full  powers  to  | 
represent  the  Aidhors  in  relation  thereto.;  Title-page,  as 
above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Quotation  :  "  Si  autem 
de  veritate  scandalum  sumitur,  utilius  permittitur  |  nasei 
scandalum,  quam  Veritas  relinquatur."  |  Saint  Gregory  the 
Great.  |  (Taken  from  the  17th  Century  Edition  of  the  \ 
"  Bihliotheque  [sic]  Nationale,''  p.  1225,  Vol.  I.)  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Dramatis  Personce.,  p.  [v] ;  Aidhors' 
Note.,  p.  [vi].  Sonnet  Dedicace  \  a  \  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  |  [Sonnet]  |  Paris,  Janvier,  1879.  George 
Moore.,  p.  [vii]  ;  Ode  Dedicace  |  a  \  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne,  [at  end  of  Ode:  Paris,  Janvier,  1879. 
Bernard  Lopez.],  pp.  [viii]-x ;  Preface,  (consisting  of 
Eighteen  Letters,  ten  of  which  are  from  George 
Moore  to  Bernard  Lopez,  and  the  other  eight  from 
Bernard  Lopez  to  George  Moore,  written  between 
May  1876  and  December  1878),  pp.  [l]-38;  Text, 
pp.  [39]-179  ;  p.  [180]  blank.  At  foot  of  p.  179  is 
the  following  printers'  imprint :  [a  line]  |  Printed  by 
Remington  ^  Co.,  5,  Arundel  Street,  Strand,  W.C. 
Signatures :  [a]  (2  leaves) ;  [b]  (4  leaves) ;  b — m 
in  eights  ;    n  (2  leaves).     The  sheets  are  wire  stitched. 

Issued  in  red  bevelled  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back 
in  gilt  as  follows  :  Martin  \  Luther  \  A  Tragedy  \  [a 
line]  I  George  |  Moore  \  and  \  Beimardo  [sic]  |  Lopez  | 
Remington,  with  conventional  gilt  decoration  and  two 
lines  in  black  at  top  and  bottom  ;  and  across  front 
cover  in  gilt,  within  black  borders,  as  follows  :  Martin 
Luther  \  A  Tragedy,  with  conventional  designs  in 
black  at  top  and  bottom.  On  back  cover,  same 
designs  and  borders  as  on  front  cover,  in  black.     All 


237 

edges  cut  and  painted  red.  Greenish-blue  end- 
papers. There  is  a  paper  binders'  label  pasted  on 
inside  back  cover,  lettered  as  follows  :  Bound  hy  | 
Bum  I  Sf  Co 

(3) 

Pagan  Poems  :  1881 

Pagan  Poems.  |  By  |  George  Moore.  |  London  :  |  New- 
man and  Co.,  |  43,  Hart  Street,  Bloomsbury,  W.C.  | 
[A  line]  |  mdccclxxxi.  |  (followed  by  initials  of  the 
author  in  ink  "  G.  M^  with  very  small  flourish.) 

Crown  octavo;  pp.  iv  -}-  164,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as 

above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Table  of  Contents,  pp. 

[iii],  iv;   Text,  pp.    [1]-164.     There   is   no   printer's 

imprint. 
Issued  in  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in   gilt. 

The  book  usually  occurs  with  the  title-page  torn  out. 

(4) 

A  Modern  Lover:  1883 

A   Modem    Lover.  |  By  |  George    Moore.  |  In    Three 
Volumes.  |  Vol.    I.    [Vol.   //.]    [Vol    III.]  \  London: 
Tinsley  Brothers,  8,  Catherine  Street,  Strand.  |  1883. 

3  Vols.,  Crown  8vo 

Vol.  I,  pp.  iv  -\-  256,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  printers'  imprint  in  centre  of  verso  as  follows : 
Printed  hy  |  Kelly  4"  Co.,  Printers  ,  [sic]  Gate  Street, 
Lincoln's  Inn  Field  ;  [sic]  |  and  Kingston-on-Thames.), 
pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Table  of  Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ; 
Text,  pp.  [l]-252  ;  pp.  [253-256]  blank. 

Vol.  II,  pp.  iv  +  240,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  printers'  imprint  in  centre  of  verso  as  follows : 
Printed  by  |  Kelly  and  Co.,  Printers,  Gate  Street,  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields ;  \  and  Kingston-on-Thames.),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ; 
Table  of  Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Text,  pp. 
[l]-239  ;  p.  [240]  blank. 


238 

Vol.  Ill,  pp.  iv  +  212,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  printers'  imprint  in  centre  of  verso  as  follows : 
Printed  by  |  Kelly  and  Co.,  Printers ,  Gate  Street,  Lincoln  s 
Inn  Fields ;  \  and  Kingston-on-Thames. \  pp.  [i,  ii] ; 
Table  of  Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Text,  pp. 
[lJ-210;  pp.  [211,  212]  blank.  Inserted  between 
pp.  210  and  [211]  is  a  32-page  numbered  list  (un- 
dated) of  Tinsley  Brothers'  \  Catalogue  of  Publications. 
(p.  [32]  blank). 

Issued  in  light  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows  :  A  \  Modem  \  Lover  \  [a  line]  Fol.  L 
[Vol.  II.]  [Vol.  III.]  I  George  Moore  \  Tinsley  Bros.  ; 
and  lettered  (diagonally)  across  the  front  in  black  as 
follows  :  188S  \  A  Modern  Lover  \  George  Moore  Back 
cover  blank.  Top  edges  unopened,  fore  and  lower 
edges  trimmed.     Cream  end-papers. 

(5)  y 

A  Mummer's  Wife:    1885 

Vizetelly's  One- Volume  Novels.  |  \A  line]  \  III.  |  A 
Mummer's  Wife.  |  By  George  Moore,  |  Author  of  "  A 
Modern  Lover,"  |  [Publishers'*  device]  \  London :  |  Vize- 
telly  &  Co.,  42,  Catherine  Street,  Strand.  |  1885. 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  440,  consisting  of  Blank  page,  p.  [1] ; 
List  of  Vizetellys  One-Volume  Novels,  printed  within 
a  thin  one-line  border,  p.  [2] ;  Half-title,  Vizetellys 
One  -  Volume  Novels.  |  [a  line]  |  ///.  |  A  Mummer  s 
Wife.  I  By  George  Moore,  (verso  blank),  pp.  [[3,  4] ; 
Title-page,  as  above  (with  printers'  imprint  in  centre 
of  verso  as  follows :  London :  |  Printed  by  J.  S.  Virtue 
and  Co.,  Limited,  |  City  Road.),  pp.  [5,  6]  ;  Dedication  : 
To  my  friend,  |  James  Davis,  |  /  dedicate  this  book,  in 
acknowledgment  of  a  \  literary  debt,  (verso  blank),  pp. 
[7,  8] ;  Quotation :  "  Change  the  surroundings  in  which 
man  lives,  and,  in  two  or  three  \  generations,  you  will  have 
changed  his  physical  constitution,  his  habits  |  of  life,  and 
a  goodly  number  of  his  ideas." — Victor  Duruy,  L Introduc- 
tion I  Generale  d,  VHistoire  de  France,  (verso  blank),  pp. 


239 

[9,  10];  Text,  pp.  [ll]-438;  p.  [439]  is  occupied  by 
a  list  of  Vizetellys  Popular  French  Novels. ;  p.  [440]  is 
occupied  by  a  list  of  Gahoriaus  Sensational  Novels. 
Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  438  as  follows  :  [a  line]  | 
Printed  hy  /.  S.  Virtue  and  Co.,  Limited ,  City  Road, 
London.  At  end  of  volume  there  is  a  20-page 
numbered  illustrated  catalogue  of  Vizetellys  Sf  Co.'s 
New  Books,  I  and  New  Editions,  dated  September,  188Jf. 
The  title-page  is  a  cancel-leaf. 
Issued  in  light  brown  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  A  \  Mummer  s  \  Wife  |  [a  line]  | 
George  \  Moore  \  Vizetelly  Sf  Co  with  decoration  in 
cherry  at  top  and  bottom ;  and  on  front  cover  in 
cherry  as  follows :  [ornament  in  gilt]  |  A  Mummer  s 
Wife  I  [ornamental  line  in  gilt]  |  George  Moore. 
[ornament  in  gilt],  with  decoration  in  cherry  at  top 
and  bottom.  In  centre  of  back  cover,  publishers' 
device  in  cherry.  All  edges  cut.  Light  grey  end- 
papers. 

In  some  copies  a  small  printed  oblong  slip  was  inserted 
between  pp.  [2]  and  [3],  bearing  the  following  note : 
Notice.  I  This  book  has  been  placed  in  the  Index  Expurga- 
torius  I  of  the  "  Select "  Circulating  Libraries  of  Messrs. 
Mudie  and  \  W.  H.  Smith  Sf  Son.  This  slip  was  inserted 
after  the  book  had  been  put  into  circulation. 

(6) 

Literature  at  Nurse:   1885 

Price  Threepence  |  [A  line]  \  Literature  |  at  Nurse  | 
or  I  Circulating  Morals  |  By  George  Moore  |  Author 
of  "A  Mummer's  Wife,''  "A  Modern  Lover,''  etc.  | 
"They  stand  there.  Respectable;  and — what  more? 
Dumb  idols ;  with  a  skin  |  of  delusively-painted  wax- 
work, inwardly  empty,  or  full  of  rags  and  bran.  •  .  .  | 
Such  bounties,  in  this  as  in  infinitely  deeper  matters, 
does  Respectability  shower  |  down  on  us.  Sad  are  thy 
doings,  O   Gig;    sadder  than   those   of  Juggernaut's 


240 

Car :  |  that,  with  hugh  wheel,  suddenly  crushes  asunder 
the  bodies  of  men ;  thou  in  thy  |  light-bobbing  Long- 
acre  springs,  gradually  winnowest  away  their  souls ! "  | 
[A  row  of  seven  fullpoints]  \  "One  day  the  Mudie 
mountain,  which  seemed  to  stand  strong  like  the  other 
rock  I  mountains,  gave  suddenly,  as  the  icebergs  do,  a 
loud-sounding  crack ;  suddenly,  |  with  hugh  clanguor, 
shivered  itself  into  ice  dust ;  and  sank,  carrying  much 
along  I  with  it." — Carlyle's  Essays.  |  London  |  Vizetelly 
&  Co.,  42  Catherine  Street,  Strand  |  1885 

Demy  8vo ;  pp.  24,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  an  advertisement  of  a  Ne7V  and  Cheaper  Edition, 
price  3s.  6d.  of  A  Modern  Lover.  By  George  Moore. 
in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [1,  2];  Text  (beginning  with 
drop  heading  as  follows :  Literature  at  Nurse,  \  or  | 
Circtdating  Morals.  \  [French  rule]),  pp.  [3]-22,  with 
name  of  the  author  at  end.  Pp.  [23,  24]  are  occupied 
by  an  announcement  of  A  Mummer  s  Wife.  |  A 
Realistic  Novel,  in  One  Vohune.  with  thirteen  Press 
Notices,  and  publishers'  imprint  at  end.  The  run- 
ning head-line  on  the  left-hand  page  is  the  title 
of  the  work  {Literature  at  Nurse,)  and  on  the  right- 
hand  page  the  sub-title  (or  Circulating  Morals.),  both 
printed  in  small  capitals,  with  folio  outside.  There 
are  no  signatures. 

Issued  as  a  24-page  pamphlet  without  wrappers,  sewn 
with  one  stitch  of  thread.  All  edges  cut.  The  leaves 
measure  8f  by  5  J  ins. 

(7) 
A  Drama  in  Muslin  :   1886 

Vizetelly's  One- Volume  Novels.  |  [A  line']  \  XV.  |  A 
Drama  in  Muslin  |  A  Realistic  Novel.  |  By  George 
Moore,  |  Author  of  "  A  Mummer's  Wife,"  "  A  Modern 
Lover,""  etc.  |  With  a  Frontispiece  from  a  Drawing 
by  J.  E.  Blanche.   |   [Publishers''  device]  \   London :  | 


241 

Vizetelly  &  Co.,  42,  Catherine  Street,  Strand.  |  1886.  | 
[The  Right  of  Translation  is  Reserved.] 

Crown  8vo  ;  pp.  vi  +  330,  consisting  of  Half-title,  Vize- 
telly  s  One-Volume  Novels.  |  [a  line]  \  XV.  \  A  Drama 
in  Muslin.  |  By  George  Moore,  (with  list  of  Vizetelly's 
One-Volume  Novels.  \  By  English  and  Foreign  Authors 
of  Repute,  on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  [Frontispiece :  In  the 
Convent  Garde?i] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  [Prefatory  Note]  (verso  blank),  pp. 
[v,  vi] ;  Text,  pp.  1-329 ;  p.  [330  blank.  Printers' 
imprint  at  foot  of  p.  329  as  follows :  [a  line]  |  Chas. 
Straker  and  Sons,  Bishopsgate  Avenue,  London,  E.G.  ; 
and  Redhill.  At  end  of  volume  there  is  a  24-page 
numbered  Illustrated  Catalogue  of  Vizetelly's  ^  Go.'s  \ 
New  Books,  \  and  New  Editions,  dated  April,  1886. 
In  the  second  edition  the  catalogue  is  also  dated 
April,  1886,  but  in  the  third  edition  it  is  dated 
November,  1885.  The  frontispiece  is  printed  in  blue  ; 
in  the  second  and  third  editions  the  frontispiece  is 
printed  in  black. 

Issued  in  light  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  [two  lines]  |  A  \  Drama  \  in  \  Muslin  \ 
[ornament]  |  George  Moore  \  [ornament]  |  Vizetelly  Sf 
Co.  I  [two  lines],  and  across  the  front  in  navy  blue, 
within  a  thick  one-line  border  in  blind,  as  follows : 
Vizetelly  s  One-  Volume  Novels.  \  A  Drama  |  in  Muslin.  | 
By  George  Moore.  \  Author  of  "A  Mummers  Wife." 
In  centre  of  back  cover,  publishers'  monogram  in 
bUnd  with  thick  one-line  outer  border  in  blind.  Top 
edges  unopened,  fore  and  lower  edges  trimmed. 


(8)  U^ 

A  Mere  Accident:  1887 
Vizetell/s  One-Volume  Novels.  |  [A  line]  |  XXVI.  |  A 
Mere  Accident.  |  By  |  George  Moore,  |  Author  of  "  A 
Mummer's  Wife,"  "  A  Modern  Lover,''  "  A  Drama  in 
Muslin,"  etc.  |  [Publishers''  device]  |  London :  |  Vizetelly 


242 

&  Co.,  42  Catherine  St.,  Strand.  |  Brentanos :  New 
York,  Washington,  and  Chicago.  |  1887.  |  [A  line]  \ 
(The  Right  of  Translation  is  reserved.) 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  viii  -\-  5-284,  consisting  of  advertisement 
of  Vizetellys  Half-Crown  Series. y  p.  [i]  ;  advertisement 
of  The  Mermaid  Series.,  p.  [ii] ;  Half-title,  Vizetellys 
One- Volume  Novels.  |  [a  line]  |  XXVI.  |  A  Mere  Acci- 
dent. I  George  Moore,  (with  advertisement  and  quo- 
tations from  reviews  of  three  of  Mr  George  Moore's 
Realistic  Novels,  on  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Title-page,  as 
above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Dedicatory  Letter 
To  I  My  Friends  at  Buckingham,  (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii, 
viii]  ;  Text,  incorrectly  beginning  p.  [5]  instead  of  p. 
[l]-282 ;  p.  [283]  is  occupied  by  advertisements  of 
Vizetelly  S^  Co.' s  Latest  Publications. \  p.  [284]  is  occupied 
by  advertisements  of  Nerv  One-  Volume  Novels.  Printers' 
imprint  at  foot  of  p.  282  as  follows :  Turnhull  and 
Spearsj  Printers,  Edinburgh.  At  end  of  volume  there 
is  a  32-page  numbered  Illustrated  Catalogue  of  Vize- 
telly Sf  Co.'s  I  Ne7v  Books,  |  and  New  Editions,  dated 
March,  1887. 

Issued  in  light  brown  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  A  |  Mere  \  Accident  |  [ornament  in 
brown]  |  George  |  Moore  \  [ornament  in  brown]  |  Vize- 
telly 4*  Co  with  two  lines  in  gilt  at  top  and  bottom, 
and  across  the  front  in  brown,  within  a  thick  one-line 
border  in  blind,  as  follows  :  Vizetelly  s  One-Volume 
Novels.  I  A  Mere  \  Accident.  |  By  George  Moore,  \  Author 
of  "  A  Mummer  s  Wife."  In  centre  of  back  cover, 
publishers'  monogram  in  blind  with  thick  one-line 
outer  border  in  blind.  Top  edges  unopened,  fore  and 
lower  edges  cut.     Green  end-papers. 


(9) 

Parnell  and  his  Island  :  1887 

Parnell   |   and   his   |    Island   |   By    |    George  Moore   | 
Author  of  I  [']  A  Mummer's  Wife  '  '  Drama  in  Muslin ' 


243 

etc.  I  London  |  Swan  Sonnenschein,  Lowrey,  &  Co.  | 
Paternoster  Square  |  1887 

Small  crown  8vo ;  pp.  iv  -|-  256,  consisting  of  Title- 
page,  as  above  (with  printers*  imprint  in  centre  of 
verso  as  follows  :  Piinted  hy  \  Spottis?voode  and  Co., 
New-Street  Square  \  London),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Table  of 
Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Text,  pp.  [lJ-254:. 
Pp.  [255,  256]  are  occupied  by  advertisements  of 
Neiv  Six-Shilling  Novels.  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of 
p.  254  as  follows  :  Printed  hy  |  Spottis?voode  and  Co., 
New-Street  Square  |  London 

Issued  in  pale  yellow  printed  paper  boards,  lettered  up 
the  back  in  black  as  follows  :  Parnell  and  his  Island 
The  front  cover  is  lettered  across  in  black  as  follows : 
Parnell  |  and  his  |  Island  |  By  |  George  Moore  |  [a 
line]  I  Half-a-Crown :  Cloth,  Three-and-Six  \  [a  line]  j 
London  [  Sivan  Sonnenschein,  Lowrey  Sf  Co.  |  Paternoster 
Square  |  i88y  (enclosed  within  a  double-line  border). 
The  back  cover  is  occupied  by  advertisements  of 
books,  with  heading  as  follows  :  Swan  Sonnenschein  S^ 
Co.'s  New  Political  List.  All  edges  cut.  White  end- 
papers.    Also  issued  simultaneously  in  cloth. 

(10) 

Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  :  1888 

Confessions  of  a  |  Young  Man.  |  By  |  George  Moore,  | 
Author  of  "  A  Mummer's  Wife,"  "  Parnell  and  His 
Island,"  etc.,  etc.  |  [Publishers'  device]  \  London :  | 
Swan  Sonnenschein,  Lowrey  &  Co.,  |  Paternoster 
Square.  |  1888. 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  iv  +  360,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Confessions  of  a  Young  Man.  \  George  Moore,  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  [Etched  Portrait  of  George  Moore 
by  William  Strang]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [iii,  iv];  Text,  pp.  [l]-357;  pp.  [358-360]  blank. 
There  is  no  printer's  imprint. 

Issued  in  grey  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt  as 


244 

follows ;  Confessions  \  of  a\  Young  Man  \  By  |  George 
Moore  |  Sonnenschein  On  front  cover,  design  of  a 
woman  with  right  knee  on  a  chair,  holding  up  her 
right  hand  to  a  gas  bracket,  and  lettered  in  blue 
Confessions  of  a  \  Young  Man  and  in  gilt  George  Moore 
Back  cover  blank.  Top  edges  unopened,  fore  and 
lower  edges  trimmed.     Dark  end-papers. 


(11) 

Spring  Days  :  1888 

Vizetelly  s  One- Volume  Novels.  |  [A  line]  \  XXIX.  | 
Spring  Days.  |  A  Realistic  Novel.  |  A  Prelude  to  "  Don 
Juan."  I  By  |  George  Moore,  |  Author  of  "A  Mum- 
mer's Wife,"  "  A  Modern  Lover,'''  "  A  Drama  in 
Muslin,''  I  "A  Mere  Accident,"  etc.  |  [Publishers' 
device]  \  London :  |  Vizetelly  &  Co.,  16  Henrietta 
Street,  |  Co  vent  Garden.  |  1888. 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  iv  -|-  372,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Vizetelly  s  One-Volume  Novels.  \  [a  line]  |  XXIX.  \ 
Spring  Days.  |  George  Moore,  (with  a  list  of  Mr  George 
Moore^s  Realistic  Novels.,  enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line 
border,  on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Title-page,  as  above 
(verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Dedication,  To  |  My 
Friend,  \  Fi'ank  Harris,  (verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  2] ; 
Preface,  pp.  [3,  4  (numbered  iv)]  ;  Text,  pp.  [5]-371 ; 
p.  [372]  blank.  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  371  as 
follows  :  Turnhull  and  Spears,  Printers,  Edinburgh.  At 
end  of  volume  there  is  a  32-page  numbered  Illus- 
trated Catalogue  of  Vizetelly  8^  Co.'s  |  New  Books,  \ 
And  New  Editions,  dated  Aprils  i888. 

Issued  in  dull  strawberry  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back 
in  gilt  as  follows :  Spring  |  Days  |  A  Realistic  |  Novel  | 
George  Moore.  \  Vizetelly  S^  Co.  with  two  lines  in 
black  at  top  and  bottom,  and  across  the  front  in 
black  as  follows  :  Spring  Days  |  A  Realistic  Novel  | 
George  Moore.  In  centre  of  back  cover,  publishers' 
monogram  in  blind.     Top  and  fore-edges  unopened. 


245 

Green  end-papers.  Some  copies  were  issued  in  blue 
cloth.  There  are  many  reissues  of  the  first  edition, 
bound  in  various  cheap  cloth  bindings. 

(12) 

Mike  Fletcher:  1889 

Mike  Fletcher.  |  A  Novel.  |  By  |  George  Moore,  | 
Author  of  I  "A  Mummer''s  Wife,*"  "  Confessions  of  a 
Young  Man,""  etc.  |  London :  |  Ward  and  Downey,  | 
12,  York  Street,  Covent  Garden.  |  1889.  |  [All  rights 
reserved.] 

Crown  8vo  ;  pp.  vi  +  304,  consisting  of  Half-title,  Mike 
Fletcher  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Title-page,  as  above 
(verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Dedication,  To  |  viy  Brother 
Augustus,  I  in  memory  of  \  many  years  of  mutual  aspiration 
and  labour,  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Text,  pp. 
[l]-304.     There  is  no  printer's  imprint. 

Issued  in  peacock  blue  cloth.  The  front  cover  is 
decorated  with  conventional  designs  in  compartments 
in  light  brown  and  peacock  blue,  and  lettered  across 
in  gilt  as  follows :  Mike  Fletcher  |  [a  line]  |  George 
Moorey  in  an  oblong  compartment  on  plain  back- 
ground. The  back  is  lettered  across  in  gilt,  on 
peacock  background,  as  follows  :  Mike  |  Fletcher  |  [a 
line]  I  George  |  Moore  \  Ward  <^  Downey,  with  designs 
to  match  the  front.  In  centre  of  back  cover,  pub- 
lishers' monogram  in  blind.  Top  and  fore-edges 
unopened,  lower  edges  trimmed.  Light  grey  flowered 
end-papers.  Some  copies  have  an  advertisement  leaf 
pasted  between  the  half-title  and  title-page. 

(13)  '^ 

Impressions  and  Opinions  :  1891 

Impressions  |  and  Opinions  |  By  |  George  Moore  | 
Author  of  '  A  Mummer's  Wife ; '  |  '  A  Modern  Lover ; ' 
*  Confessions  |  of  a   Young    Man,'   etc.  |  [Ornament]  | 


246 

London  |  Published  by  David  Nutt  |  in  the  Strand  | 
1891 

Small  crown  8vo ;  pp.  viii  +  346,  consisting  of  Half- 
title,  Impressions  and  Opinions  (verso  blank),  pp. 
[i,  ii] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii, 
iv] ;  [Note]  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi]  ;  Table  of  Con- 
tents (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii,  viii] ;  Text,  pp.  [l]-346. 
Printers*  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  346  as  follows  :  [a  line]  | 
Printed  by  T.  and  A .  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty,  | 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press.  At  end  of  volume 
there  is  a  12-page  numbered  list  (undated)  of  A 
Selection  |  from  \  David  Null's  \  List  of  Publications. 
printed  on  smaller  paper  than  the  text. 

Issued  in  green  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows  :  [gilt  decoration]  |  Impressions  \  and  \ 
Opinions  \  George  \  Moore  \  [gilt  decoration  with  David 
Nutt  in  centre]  ;  gilt  decoration  at  top  and  bottom  of 
front  cover;  back  cover  blank.  Top  and  fore-edges 
unopened,  lower  edges  trimmed.     White  end-papers. 


(14) 
Vain  Fortune:  [1892] 

Vain  Fortune.  |  By  |  George  Moore,  |  Author  of  "A 
Mummer's  Life  [^ic],"  "  Impressions  and  Opinions," 
"  Confessions  of  a  |  Young  Man,''  "  A  Modern  Lover," 
etc.  I  With  Eleven  Illustrations  by  Maurice  Greiffen- 
hagen.  |  London  :  |  Henry  and  Co.,  |  Bouverie  Street, 
E.C. 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  Frontispiece  +  iv  -}-  304,  consisting 
of  Frontispiece,  The  Great  Critics  had  each  a  separate 
Audience.,  followed  by  a  leaf  of  tissue ;  Title-page,  as 
above  (with  printers*  imprint  at  foot  of  verso  as  follows  : 
[a  line]  |  Printed  by  Haze II,  Watson,  4*  Viney,  Ld., 
London  and  Aylesbury.),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  p.  [iii]  is  occupied 
by  the  following  note :  The  Author  has  to  express  his 
thanks  to  the  Editor  \  of  the  ^'Ladys  Pictorial"  for  his 


247 

kind  permission  to  \  reproduce  in  this  volume  Mr.  Greiffen- 
hagens  illus-  \  trations. ;  p.  [iv]  blank ;  Text,  pp. 
[lJ-296.  The  printers'  imprint,  which  appears  on  the 
verso  of  Title-page,  is  repeated  at  foot  of  p.  296.  Pp. 
[297-304]  are  occupied  by  advertisements  of  books 
published  by  Henry  &  Co.  The  misprint  on  Title- 
page,  viz.  *'  A  Mummer  s  Life,"  is  again  repeated  on 
p.  [303]. 

Issued  in  dark  red  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 
as  follows :  Vain  \  Fortune  \  George  \  Moore  \  Henri/  Sf 
C°  On  front  cover  there  is  a  thick  line  border,  with 
thin  inner  border,  in  gilt.  The  same  border  is  re- 
peated on  back  cover  in  blind.  All  edges  cut.  Dark 
navy  end-papers. 

The  illustrations  comprise  Frontispiece  and  four  other 
full-page  plates,  which  face  pp.  35, 101, 180,  and  293, 
each  protected  by  a  leaf  of  tissue ;  and  six  vignette 
illustrations  in  the  text  at  pp.  84,  106,  174,  202,  264, 
and  273.     There  is  no  list  of  illustrations. 


(15) 

Vain  Fortune  :  [1892] 

Large  Paper  Edition 

There  was  also  an  edition  of  150  copies  printed  on 
Large  Paper.  The  collation  is  the  same  as  the  small 
paper  issue,  with  the  addition  of  a  Half-title  preceding 
the  frontispiece:  Vain  Fortune,  (with  certificate  of 
issue  in  centre  of  verso  as  follows :  Only  One  Hundred 
and  Fifty  Copies  of  this  Large  Paper  Edition  \  have 
been  Printed^  of  which  this  is  \  No.  .  .  .  This  large 
paper  edition  was  advertised  as  being  numbered  and 
signed  by  the  author,  but  very  few  copies  were  so 
issued. 

Crown  4to;  issued  in  white  bevelled  cloth,  lettered 
across  the  back  in  gilt  as  follows :  Vain  |  Fortune  \ 
George  \  Moore  \  Henry  Sf  Co.,  and  across  the  front  in 


248 

gilt  as  follows :  Vain  \  Fortune  \  George  Moore  Back 
cover  blank.  Top  edges  unopened,  fore-edges  uncut 
and  unopened,  lower  edges  uncut.  Flowered  end- 
papers. A  large  number  of  copies  were  re-issued 
in  red  buckram  and  published  by  Messrs.  Walter 
Scott,  Ltd. 

(16)       ' 

Modern  Painting  :    1893 
Modern   |  Painting  |   By   George    Moore   |   London  | 
Walter  Scott,  Limited  |  24  Warwick  Lane  |  1893 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  vi  -\-  256,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Modem  |  Painting  (with  list  of  books  Bt/  the  same  Author 
in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  Note  in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Table  of 
Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Text,  pp.  [lJ-248 ; 
pp.  [249-256]  are  occupied  by  advertisements  of 
books  published  by  Messrs.  Walter  Scott,  Ltd.  At 
foot  of  p.  248  is  the  following  printers'  imprint: 
The  Walter  Scott  Press,  Newcastle-on-Tyne.  At  end  of 
volume  there  is  a  16-page  unnumbered  and  undated 
Catalogue  of  Books  published  by  Messrs.  Walter 
Scott,  Ltd.,  printed  on  different  paper  to  that  of  the 
text. 

Issued  in  dark  red  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 
as  follows :  Modern  \  Painting  |  George  Moore  \  Walter 
Scott,  Ltd,  Both  sides  blank.  Top  edges  gilt,  fore 
and  lower  edges  cut.     Sage-green  end-papers. 

(17) 

The  Strike   at  Arlingford:   1893 

The  Strike  at  |  Arlingford  |  Play  in  Three  Acts  |  By 
George  Moore  |  London  |  Walter  Scott,  Limited  |  24 
Warwick  Lane  |  1893 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  178,  consisting  of  Half-title,  The  Strike 
at  I  Arlingford.  (verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  2]  ;  Title-page, 


249 

as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [3,  4] ;  Note  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [5,  6] ;  List  of  Characters  (verso  blank),  pp.  [7,  8]  ; 
Text,  pp.  [9]-175.  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  175 
as  follows  :  The  Walter  Scott  Press,  Nervcastle-on-Tyne. 
P.  [176]  blank.  Pp.  [177,  178]  are  occupied  by 
advertisements  of  books  by  George  Moore,  published 
by  Walter  Scott,  Ltd. 
Issued  in  dark  red  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 
as  follows :  The  |  Strike  at  |  Arlingford  \  Play  in  | 
Three  Acts  \  [a  line]  |  George  Moore  (enclosed  within 
a  thin  border  with  scallop-shaped  design  at  top  and 
bottom  in  gilt)  |  Walter  Scott  On  front  cover  a  large 
elongated  panelled  design  enclosed  within  a  two-line 
border  in  gilt.  Back  cover  blank.  Top  edges  gilt, 
fore  and  lower  edges  cut.     Sage-green  end-papers. 


(18)    ■^ 

Esther  Waters  :    1894 

Esther  Waters  |  A  Novel  |  By  |  George  Moore  | 
London  |  Walter  Scott,  Ltd.  |  24  Warwick  Lane, 
Paternoster  Row   |    1894 

Crown  Svo ;  pp.  vi^-  380,  consisting  of  Blank  page,  p.  [i] ; 
p.  [ii]  is  occupied  by  a  list  of  six  books  By  the  same 
Author;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii, 
iv];  Dedication,  To  my  Brother,  \  Major  Maurice 
Moore,  |  /  Affectionately  Dedicate  |  this  Book,  (verso 
blank), pp.  [v,  vi];  Text,  pp.  [l]-377;  p.  [378]  blank; 
p.  [379]  is  occupied  by  a  list  of  advertisements  of 
Works  hy  George  Moore. ;  p.  [380]  is  occupied  by  an 
advertisement  of  the  Second  Edition  of  'Modern 
Painting.'  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  377  as 
follows :  The  Walter  Scott  Press,  ISewcastle-on-Tyne. 
[The  preliminaries  consist  of  1  leaf  (pp.  [i,  ii])  pasted 
on  to  a  quarter-sheet  (Title-page  and  Dedication).] 
At  end  of  volume  there  is  a  16-page  unnumbered 
catalogue  of  books  published  by  Walter  Scott,  Ltd., 
with  heading  as  follows :    Walter  Scott's  \  New  Books. 


250 

In  some  copies  this  catalogue  is  printed  on  thin 
paper. 
Issued  in  dark  green  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  Esther  |  Waters  |  A  Novel  |  George 
Moore  \  Walter  Scott;  and  on  upper  portion  of  front 
cover  in  gilt  as  follows :  Esther  Waters  |  A  Novel  | 
George  Moore  with  an  ornamental  flower-design  in 
gilt  in  lower  left-hand  corner.  Back  cover  blank. 
Top  edges  gilt,  fore  and  lower  edges  cut.  Navy  end- 
papers (some  copies  were  issued  with  light  navy 
end-papers). 

(19)    ^ 

Celibates  :    1895 

Celibates   |   By  |    George   Moore   |    London :    Walter 
Scott,  Ltd.   I   Paternoster  Square  |    1895 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  viii  -|-  560,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Celibates  (with  a  list  of  eight  books  Bi/  the  same  Author, 
enclosed  within  a  one-line  border,  on  verso),  pp.  [i, 
ii] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ; 
Table  of  Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Fly-title 
to  first  story,  Mildred  Lawson  (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii, 
viii] ;  Text,  pp.  [lJ-559 ;  p.  [560]  blank.  Printers' 
imprint.  Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to 
Her  Majesty  |  at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press,  at 
foot  of  p.  559.  At  end  of  volume  there  are  8  un- 
numbered pages  of  advertisements  of  books  published 
by  Messrs.  Walter  Scott,  Ltd.  There  are  fly-titles 
before  the  different  Tales,  viz.  Mildred  Lawson,  p. 
[vii];  John  Norton,  p.  [313];  and  Agnes  Lahens, 
p.   [453]. 

Issued  in  dark  red  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  [two  double  rules]  |  Celibates  \  By  | 
George  Moore  \  [double  rule]  |  Walter  Scott  \  [three 
rules] ;  and  across  the  front  in  gilt :  Celibates  |  By  | 
George  Moore  Back  cover  blank.  Top  edges  gilt, 
fore  and  lower  edges  cut.  Dark  bluish-green  end- 
papers. 


261 


(20) 

The  Royal   Academy  1895:   1895 

"New  Budget"  Extras.  No.  1  |  The  Royal  Academy  | 
1895  I  [A  wavy  line]  \  Criticisms  |  [A  line]  \  By  George 
Moore  |  Caricatures  |  [A  line]  \  By  Harry  Furniss  | 
Some  of  which  appeared  in  The  New  Budget  |  Price 
Sixpence  |  Published  at  the  Office  of  "The  New 
Budget''  I  69  Fleet  Street,  E.C.  |  1895  |  All  rights 
reserved 

Pott  4to;  pp.  64,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  an  advertisement  of  Graham  Sf  Banks,  |  .  .  .  | 
Decorators  and  Upholsterers,  on  verso),  pp.  [1,  2] ; 
Index,  pp.  [3],  4 ;  Advertisement  of  Queen's  Hall,  | 
Langham  Place,  W.  p.  [5] ;  Advertisement  of  Pleyel 
Pianos,  p.  [6]  ;  Text  (signed  at  end :  George  Moore), 
with  heading  as  follows :  The  Royal  Academy  Exhibi- 
tion, [a  line]  |  Criticisms  \  by  \  George  Moore,  pp.  [7]- 
24 ;  Caricatures  \  by  \  Harry  Furniss.,  pp.  25-62  ;  p.  [63] 
is  occupied  by  an  advertisement,  with  heading:  Mr. 
N.  Fert,;  p.  [64]  is  occupied  by  an  advertisement  of 
the  Blue  Posts  Tavern 

Issued  as  a  64-page  pamphlet,  sewn  with  stitches  of 
thread.     All  edges  cut. 

(21)    t- 

Evelyn  Innes :   1898 

Evelyn  Innes  |  By  |  George  Moore  |  London  |  T. 
Fisher  Unwin  [   1898 

Tall  crown  8vo ;  pp.  viii  -f-  4r84,  consisting  of  a  Leaf, 
with  signature  a  on  recto,  and  list  of  Novels  at  Six 
Shillings  Each.,  enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line 
border,  on  verso,  pp.  [i.  ii] ;  Half-title,  Evelyn  Innes 
(with  publisher's  monogram  on  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ; 
Title-page,  as  above  (with  list  of  books  By  the  Same 
Author  and  [All  Rights  Reserved.]  on  verso),  pp.   [v. 


252 

vi] ;  Dedication,  To  \  Arthur  Symons  and  W,  B.  Yeats  \ 
Two  Contemporary  Writers  \  with  whom  \  I  am  in 
syrnpathy  (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii,  viii] ;  Text,  pp.  [1]- 
482.  Printers'  imprint  in  centre  of  p.  [483]  as 
follows :  Colston  Sf  Coy.,  Limited,  Printers,  Edinburgh. 
P.  [484]  blank.  The  title  of  the  work  and  pub- 
lisher's name  on  title-page  are  printed  in  red,  the 
other  lines  are  in  black.  At  end  of  volume  there 
are  8  unnumbered  pages  of  advertisements  of 
miscellaneous  books  published  by  T.  Fisher  Unwin. 
(In  some  copies  these  advertisements  leaves  are 
missing.) 
Issued  in  dark  green  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back 
in  gilt  as  follows :  Evelyn  |  Innes  \  George  \  Moore 
(enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line  border  in  gilt,  and 
T.  Fisher  Un?vin  at  foot,  also  enclosed  within  a  thin 
one-line  border  in  gilt).  Both  sides  blank.  Top 
edges  gilt,  fore  and  lower  edges  trimmed.  White 
end-papers. 

(22)       ^ 

The  Bending  of  the  Bough:   1900 

The   Bending  of  the   Bough.    |    A   Comedy  in   Five 

Acts.     I     By  George    Moore.      [Double    ornainent\    \ 

London    |    T.  Fisher   Unwin    |    Paternoster  Square    | 
1900 

Crown  8vo;  pp.  xx  -j-  156,  consisting  of  Half-title,  The 
Bending  of  the  Bough  (with  an  advertisement  of 
'Evelyn  Innes,'  headed  By  the  same  Author,  en- 
closed within  a  thin  one-line  border,  on  verso),  pp. 
[i,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with  [All  rights  reserved.] 
at  foot  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  List  of  Characters, 
p.  [v] ;  p.  [vi]  blank ;  Preface,  pp.  vii-xx ;  Text, 
pp.  [1]— 153;  pp.  [154-156]  blank.  Printers'  imprint 
at  foot  of  p.  153  as  follows:  Unwin  Brothers,  The 
Gresham  Press,   Woking  and  London 

Issued  in  light  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows  :  The  |  Bending  \ofihe\  Bough  \  George 


253 

Moore  |  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  and  across  the  front  in  gilt 
as  follows :  The  Bending  of  the  Bough  \  George  Moore 
Back  cover  blank.  Top  and  fore-edges  unopened. 
White  end-papers. 


(23)    '-^ 

Sister  Teresa  :    1901 

Sister  Teresa  |  By  |  George  Moore  |  [Publisher's 
device]  \  London  |  T.  Fisher  Unwin  |  Paternoster 
Square    |    1901 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  viii  -j-  248,  consisting  of  a  Leaf,  with 
signature  a  on  recto  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Half- 
title,  Sister  Teresa  (with  an  advertisement  of  two 
books  by  the  same  author,  divided  into  three  com- 
partments and  enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line  border, 
on  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  [Portrait  of  George  Moore, 
with  facsimile  signature  :  Alivays  yours  |  George  Moore, 
printed  on  imitation  Japanese  vellum,  followed  by 
a  leaf  of  tissue] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with  All  Rights 
reserved  at  foot  of  verso),  pp.  [v,  vi]  ;  Preface,  pp.  vii, 
viii;  Text,  pp.  [l]-236.  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of 
p.  236  as  follows :  Colston  Sf  Coy.  Limited,  Printers, 
Edinburgh  Pp.  [237-248]  are  occupied  by  advertise- 
ments of  Books  for  I  Recreation  |  a7id  Study,  published 
by  T.  Fisher  Unwin. 

Issued  in  dark  green  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  Sister  |  Teresa  \  By  |  George  |  Moore 
(enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line  border  in  gilt),  and 
T.  Fisher  Unwin  at  foot  (also  enclosed  within  a  thin 
one-line  border  in  gilt).  Both  sides  blank.  Top 
edges  gilt,  fore-edges  unopened,  lower  edges  trimmed. 
White  end-papers. 

The  Frontispiece- Portrait  of  George  Moore  is  by  Henry 
Tonks,  Slade  Professor. 


254 


(24) 
AH   U-IJtl-gORC:     [1902] 

An  C-1Jn-gOnC.  |  [Rule]  I  S^^AtUA  I  le  SeCtlSA 
6  mOR'OA  ;  I  AifCfijce  6'n  SACfbeAplxx  |  as  I 
pA-OriAIS  6  StllUeAt)Ain,  b.A.  |  [Rnk]  I  Dublin  | 
Sealy,  Bryers  &  Walker. 

Royal  8vo ;  pp.  xii  -j-  11 6,  consisting  of  Half-title,  An 
c-iJR-$onc.  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Title-page,  as 
above  (with  [a  line]  |  All  Rights  Reserved,  [a  line]  in 
centre  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Dedication,  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Table  of  Contents,  ^n  cIar.  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [vii,  viii] ;  Preface,  pp.  [ix-xii  (incorrectly  paged 
[i]-iv)] ;  Text,  pp.  [1]-115  ;  p.  [116]  blank.  At  foot 
of  p.  115  is  the  following  printers'  imprint :  [a  line]  | 
Printed  by  Sealy,  Bryers  and  Walker,  Dublin. 

Issued  in  grey  printed  paper  wrappers,  with  the 
lettering  on  title-page  repeated  on  front  cover,  with 
x\0Ti  85111,1115  in  upper  right-hand  corner.  Back  cover 
blank.     Cut  edges. 

(25)      ^ 

The  Untilled  Field:  1903 

The  Untilled  Field  |  By  |  George  Moore.  |  London    | 
T.  Fisher  Unwin  |  Paternoster  Square.  |  m-d-cccc-iii. 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  viii  -|-  424,  consisting  of  Half-title,  The  \ 
Untilled  Field,  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  List  of  Neiv 
Six  Shilling  Novels.,  enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line 
border,  p.  [iii] ;  List  of  Books  By  the  same  Author., 
enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line  border,  p.  [iv] ;  Title- 
page,  as  above  (with  (^All  Rights  Reserved.)  on  verso), 
pp.  [v,  vi];  Table  of  Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii, 
viii];  Fly-title,  In  the  Clay,  (verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  2]; 
Text,  pp.  3-[420] ;  pp.  [421-424]  are,  occupied  by 
advertisements  of  books  published  by  Mr.  T.  Fisher 
Unwin.  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  [420]  as 
follows :    Printed   by  Sealy,  Biyers  and    Walker,  Mid. 


255 

Abbey  St.,  Dublin.  There  are  fly-titles  before  the 
different  '  Stories '  into  which  the  work  is  divided, 
at  pp.  [1],  [27],  [117],  [153],  [175],  [199],  [221],  [241], 
[259],  [269],  [279],  [299],  and  [395].  Pp.  [2],  [28], 
[116],  [118],  [152],  [154],  [174],  [176],  [198],  [200], 
[222],  [240],  [242],  [258],  [260],  [270],  [278],  [280], 
[300],  [394],  and  [396]  blank.  The  title  of  the  work 
and  the  author's  and  publisher's  names  on  title-page 
are  printed  in  red,  the  other  lines  are  in  black. 
Issued  in  scarlet  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 
as  follows :  The  |  Untilled  \  Field  |  By  \  George  \ 
Moore  (enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line  border  in  gilt), 
and  T.  Fisher  Unjvin  at  foot  (also  enclosed  within  a 
thin  one-line  border  in  gilt).  The  front  cover  is 
decorated  with  design  of  intertwined  sprays  and 
publisher's  monogram  in  blind,  and  lettered  on  upper 
portion  in  gilt  as  follows :  The  Untilled  Field  \  By 
George  Moore  Back  cover  blank.  Top  edges  gilt, 
fore-edges  cut.     White  end-papers. 

(26)    .'- 

The  Lake:  1905 

The  Lake  |  By  |  George  IMoore  |  Author  of  'Esther 
Waters,'  'Evelyn  Innes,'  etc.  |  [Publisher's  device^  hy 
William  Nicholson]  \  London  |  William  Heinemann  | 
1905 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  vi  +  336,  consisting  of  Half-title,  The 
Lake  (with  a  list  of  New  6s.  Novels  on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii] ; 
Title-page,  as  above  (with  Copyright.  New  Yoi'k  : 
D.  Appleton  Sj-  Co.  1905.  \  Copyright.  London: 
William  Heinemann.  1905.  \  This  Edition  enjoys  copy- 
right in  I  all  countries  signatory  to  the  Berne  \  Treaty, 
and  is  not  to  be  imported  |  into  the  United  States  of 
America,  on  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Dedicatory  Letter,  A 
Edouard  Dujardin,  pp.  [v],  vi ;  Text,  pp.  [l]-334 ; 
printers'  imprint.  Billing  and  Sons,  Ltd.,  Printers,  Guild- 
ford at  foot  of  p.  334 ;  pp.  [335,  336]  blank.  [The 
preliminaries   consist   of  a   quarter-sheet   (2    leaves) 


256 

with  the  Dedicatory  Letter  (1  leaf)  pasted  between 

Title-page  and  p.  [1]  of  text.] 

Issued  in  dark  red  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 

as  follows :    The  \  Lake  \  George  \  Moore  |  Heinemann, 

and  across  the  front  in  gilt  as  follows :   The  Lake    \ 

George  Moore     In  centre  of  back  cover,  publisher's 

windmill   device    (by    William    Nicholson)    in   blind. 

Top    edges    cut,   fore-edges    trimmed,   lower    edges 

uncut.     White  end-papers. 

A  second  impression  appeared  in  the  same  month.     It 

is  exactly  similar  in  binding  and  format,  but  the  two  lines 

of  Copyright  on  verso  of  Title-page  are  transposed,  and 

the   following   note   is   added   in   centre  of  verso :    First 

printed,  November,  1905  \  Second  Impression,  November,  1905 


(27) 

Reminiscences  of  the  Impressionist  Painters  :  1906 

The  Tower  Press  Booklets  |  Number  Three  [Two 
ornaments]  \  Reminiscences  of  the  |  Impressionist 
Painters  |  By  George  Moore.  {Ornament]  \  Dublin: 
Maunsel  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  |  60  Dawson  Street.         mcmvt. 

Foolscap  8vo  ;  pp.  xvi  -\-  9-48,  consisting  of  Blank  leaf, 
pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Half-title,  Reminiscences  of  the  \  Im- 
pressionist Painters  \  By  George  Moore,  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with  printers' 
imprint  at  foot  of  verso  as  follows :  Printed  at  the 
Tower  Press,  Thirty -eight  Cornmarkei,  Dublin.),  pp. 
[v,  vi] ;  Dedicatory  Letter,  beginning  My  dear  Steer, 
pp.  [vii-xv] ;  p.  [xvi]  blank ;  Text,  pp.  9-48. 

Signatures  (a)-c  in  eights ;  d,  4  leaves. 

Issued  in  light  grey  printed  paper  wrappers,  with  large 
design  of  a  tower,  printed  in  black,  on  front,  lettered 
below  in  black  as  follows  :  The  Tower  Press  Booklets  | 
Number  Three  [three  ornaments]  |  Reminiscences  of 
the  I  Impressionist  Painters.  \  By  George  Moore.  P.  [2] 
of  cover  blank.  P.  [3]  is  occupied  by  a  list  of  volumes 
in  the  same  series,  headed  The  Tower  Press  Booklets. 


257 

P.  [4]  blank.     Top  edges  unopened,  fore  and  lower 
edges  uncut. 

(28)       ^ 

Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life:  1906 

Memoirs  of  |  My  Dead  Life  |  By  |  George  Moore  | 
[Publisher's  Windmill  device^  by  William  Nicholson]  | 
London  |  William  Heinemann  |  1906 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  viii  -|-  336,  consisting  of  Blank  leaf, 
pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Half-title,  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  (with 
list  of  Works  hy  George  Moore  on  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ; 
Title-page,  as  above  (with  Copyright  1906  by  William 
Heinemann.  in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [v,  vi]  ;  Table  of 
Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  vii,  [viii]  ;  Text,  pp.  [1]- 
335 ;  printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  [336]  as  follows : 
Printed  hy  T.  and  A.  Constable ,  Printers  to  His  Majesty  | 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 

Issued  in  navy  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows  :  Memoirs  |  of  My  |  Dead  Life  |  George  | 
Moore  (enclosed  within  a  thin  border  with  scallop- 
shaped  design  at  top  and  bottom  in  gilt)  |  Heinemann 
On  front  cover,  a  large  elongated  panelled  design 
enclosed  within  a  two-line  border  in  blind.  On  back 
cover,  in  lower  right-hand  corner,  publisher's  device 
(the  Whistler  variety)  in  blind.  Top  and  fore-edges 
cut,  lower  edges  uncut.     White  end-papers. 

(29)      y 

Ave:  1911 

'  Hail  and  Farewell  \'  \[A  line]  \  Ave  |  By  |  George 
Moore  |  London  |  William  Heinemann  |  1911 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  vi  -|-  368,  consisting  of  Blank  page, 
p.  [i]  ;  p.  [ii]  is  occupied  by  an  advertisement  of  two 
books  ('  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life '  and  '  The  Lake  ') 
By  the  same  Author;  Half-title,  ^ Hail  and  Farewell/' 
(with  'Hail  and  Farewell/'  \  A  Trilogy  \  L  Ave  \  //. 
Salve  [In  preparation  |  HL  Vale  [In  preparation  in 
S 


258 

centre  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  Copyright,  London,  1911,  by  William  Heinemann, 
I  and  Washington,  U.S.A.,  by  D.  Appleton  and  Co.  at 
foot  of  verso),  pp.  [v,  vi]  ;  Overture,  pp.  [l]-39  ;  Text, 
pp.  40-367 ;  printers'  imprint.  Billing  and  Sons,  Ltd., 
Printers,  Guildford  at  foot  of  p.  367  ;  p.  [368]  blank. 
The  title  of  the  book,  Ave,  is  printed  in  red,  the  other 
lines  are  printed  in  black. 
Issued  in  navy  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows  :  Hail  and  \  Farewell  \  [a  line]  |  Ave  I 
George  |  Moore  (enclosed  within  a  thin  border  with 
scallop-shaped  design  at  top  and  bottom  in  gilt)  | 
Heinemann  On  front  cover  a  large  elongated  orna- 
mental design  enclosed  within  a  two-line  border  in 
blind.  On  back  cover  in  lower  right-hand  corner 
publisher's  device  (the  Whistler  variety)  in  blind. 
Top  and  fore-edges  cut,  lower  edges  trimmed. 
White  end-papers. 
There  is  a  much  later  issue,  of  which  some  copies  are 
printed  on  thinner  paper,  with  pp.  [i,  ii]  of  the  pre- 
liminaries omitted. 


(30)  ^ 

The  Apostle  :  1911 

The  Apostle  |  A  Drama  in  Three  Acts  |  By  George 
Moore  |  Dublin  :  Maunsel  and  Co.  Ltd.  |  96  Middle 
Abbey  Street  |  1911 

Large  crown  8vo;  pp.  viii -f  104,  consisting  of  Half- 
title,  The  Apostle  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Title- 
page,  as  above  (with  All  rights  reserved.  \  Printed  by 
Maunsel  S^  Co.,  Ltd.,  Dublin,  on  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ; 
Dedicatory  Letter,  beginning  My  dear  Mary  Hunter, 
(verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi]  ;  Table  of  Contents  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [vii,  viii] ;  A  Prefatory  Letter  \  on  Reading 
the  Bible  \  for  the  First  Time,  pp.  1-35  ;  p.  [36]  blank  ; 
Fly-title  to  the  play.  The  Apostle,  p.  [37] ;  Persons  in 
the  Play,  p.  [38];  Text,  pp.  39-100;  p.  [101]  blank; 
pp.  [102-103]  are  occupied  by  advertisements  of  The 


259 

Works  of  J.  M.  Synge;  p.  [104]  is  occupied  by 
advertisement  of  books  by  Lady  Gregory. 
Issued  in  mauve  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 
as  follows :  [a  line]  |  The  \  Apostle  \  A  Drama  \  in 
Three  \  Acts  \  George  \  Moore  \  Maunsel  \  [a  line]. 
The  front  cover  is  lettered  across  in  gilt  as  follows : 
The  Apostle  \  A  Drama  in  Three  Acts  \  By  \  George 
Moore,  with  a  one-line  border  in  blind,  and  a  uniform 
outer  border  in  blind  on  back  cover.  Top  edges  cut, 
fore-edges  unopened,  lower  edges  uncut.  White 
end-papers. 


(81)     ^ 

Salve:  1912 

*  Hail  and  Farewell ! '  |  [^   line]  \  Salve  |  By  |  George 
Moore  |  London  |  William  Heinemann  |  1912 

Crown  8vo  ;  pp.  iv  -|-  380,  consisting  of  Half-title, '  Hail 
and  Farewell  I '  (with  '  Hail  and  Farervell  -'  \  A  Trilogy  j 
/.  Ave  I  //.  Salve  \  HI.  Vale  [/«  preparation  on 
verso),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with  Copy- 
right, London,  1912  on  verso  at  foot),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ; 
Text,  pp.  [l]-379.  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  379 
as  follows  :  Billing  and  Sons,  Ltd.,  Printers,  Guildford  ; 
p.  [380]  blank.  The  title  of  the  book,  Salve,  is 
printed  in  red  ;  the  other  lines  are  in  black. 

Issued  in  navy  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  Hail  and  \  Farewell  \  [a  line]  |  Salve  \ 
George  \  Moore  (enclosed  within  a  gilt  border  with 
scallop-shaped  design  at  top  and  bottom)  |  Heinemann 
On  front  cover,  a  large  elongated  ornamental  design 
enclosed  within  a  two-line  border  in  blind.  On  back 
cover,  in  lower  right-hand  corner,  publisher's  device 
(the  Whistler  variety)  in  blind.  Top  and  fore-edges 
cut,  lower  edges  untrimmed.  White  end-papers. 
There  is  an  early  issue  with  the  border-design  on 
back  in  light  green. 


260 

(32) 

Esther  Waters  :  A  Play  in  Five  Acts  :  1913 

Esther  Waters  |  By  George  Moore  |  A  Play  in  Five 
Acts  I  London :  William  Heinemann  |  1913 

Demy  8vo ;  pp.  xvi  -\-  156,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Esthers  Waters  \  By  George  Moore  (with  a  list  of 
Works  hy  George  Moore  enclosed  within  a  one-line 
border  on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  Copyright  191S  in  bottom  left-hand  corner  of 
verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Table  of  Acts  into  which  the  play 
is  divided  (verso  blank),  pp.   [v,  vi]  ;  Reprint  of  the 

\  Programme  of  the  Play  for  the  first  production  at  the 
Apollo  Theatre,  on  December  10,  1911  (verso  blank), 
pp.  [vii,  viii]  ;  Preface,  pp.  ix-xv ;  p.  [xvi]  blank  ; 
Text,  pp.  1-[153]  ;  at  foot  of  p.  [153]  is  the  following 
printers'  imprint :  Piinted  hy  |  Ballantyne  S^  Company 
Ltd  I  at  the  Ballantyne  Press  |  Tavistock  Street  Covent 
Garden  |  London;  pp.  [154-156]  blank. 

Issued  in  drab  green  paper  boards,  with  white  paper 
name  and  title-label  on  back  lettered  across  in  green 
as  follows :  Esther  \  Waters  \  A  Play  in  |  Five  Acts  | 
[ornament]  |  George  |  Moore  \  [ornament]  |  London  : 
Heinemann  \  1913  (enclosed  within  a  thin  one-line 
border).  Both  sides  blank.  All  edges  cut.  White 
end-papers. 

(33) 

Elizabeth  Cooper  :  1913 

Elizabeth  Cooper  |  A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  |  By 
George  Moore  |  Maunsel  and  Co.  Ltd.  |  Dublin  and 
London  |  1913 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  80,  consisting  of  Half-title,  Elizabeth 
Cooper  (verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  2]  ;  Title-page,  as  above 
(with  Copyright  1913,  George  Moore  in  centre,  and  the 
following  printers'  imprint  at  foot,  of  verso :  Printed 
by  I  Ballantyne  Sf  Company  Ltd  |  London),  pp.  [3,  4]  ; 


261 

Note  of  First  Performance  and  List  of  Persons  in  the 
Play,  p.  [5] ;  p.  [6]  blank ;  Text,  pp.  7-80. 
Issued  in  drab  green  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows  :  Elizabeth  \  Cooper  \  A  \  Comedy  \  By  | 
George  \  Moore  \  Maunsel  The  front  cover  is  lettered 
across  in  gilt  as  follows :  Elizabeth  Cooper  |  A  Comedy 
By  I  George  Moore,  with  a  one-line  outer  border  in 
blind,  and  a  uniform  outer  border  in  blind  on  back 
cover.     All  edges  cut.     White  end-papers. 


(34)     ^ 

Vale:  1914 

'  Hail   and    Farewell ! '  |  [-^    line']  \  Vale  |  By  |  George 
Moore  |  London  |  William  Heinemann 

Crown    8vo;    pp.    iv  -f  364,   consisting   of  Half-title, 
'  Hail  and  Farewell ! '  (with 

'  Hail  and  Farewell !  * 
A  Trilogy 
HI.  Ave 
11.  Salve 
HI.   Vale 
on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with  Copy- 
right, 191Jf.  on  verso  below),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Text,  pp. 
[l]-363.      Printers'    imprint   at   foot   of    p.    363    as 
follows:    Billing   and  Sons,  Ltd.,  Printers,  Guildford; 
p.    [364]    blank.      The   title   of  the   book,    Vale,   is 
printed  in  red ;  the  other  lines  are  in  black. 
Issued  in  navy  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  Hail  and  \  Farewell  \  [a  line]  |  Vale  \ 
George  \  Moore  \  (enclosed  within  a  thin  border  with 
scallop-shaped  design  at  top  and  bottom    in   gilt)  | 
Heinemann      On    front    cover,    a    large     elongated 
ornamental  design  enclosed  within  a  two-line  border 
in  blind.     On  back  cover,  in  lower  right-hand  corner, 
publisher's   device    (the   Whistler  variety)  in   blind. 
Top  and  fore-edges  cut,  lower  edges  trimmed.    White 
end-papers. 


262 

The  second  issue  was  issued  with  a  cancel  Half-title, 
with  the  above  misprint  on  verso,  and  the  second  ^  E '  in 
*  Farewell '  on  recto,  corrected. 

[n  the  third  issue,  Copyright,  191Jf.  on  verso  of  title- 
page  is  altered  to  London  :  William  Heinemann.  lOlJf..  | 
Copyright. 

(35)        ^ 

Muslin:  1915 

Muslin  I  By  |   George   Moore  |  \Puhlisher''s   device^   hy 
William  Nicholson]  \  London  |  William  Heinemann 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  xx  +  344,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Muslin  (with  list  of  Works  hy  George  Moore  on  verso), 
pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with  the  following 
bibliographical  note  in  centre  of  verso :  Originally 
published  under  the  title  of  \  'A  Drama  in  Muslin,'  1886.  | 
New  Edition,  September,  1915. ;  and  London  :  William 
Heinemann.  1915.  at  foot  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ; 
Preface^  pp.  v-xx ;  Text,  pp.  [lJ-343 ;  p.  [344] 
blank.  At  foot  of  p.  343  is  the  following  printers' 
imprint :  [a  line]  |  Billing  and  Sons,  Ltd.,  Printers y 
Guildford,  England.  At  end  of  volume  there  is  a 
16-page  numbered  catalogue  (undated)  oi  A  List  of  \ 
Current  Fiction  |  published  by  |  William  Heinemann  \  at 
21  Bedford  St.,  London,  W.C.  \  [Publisher's  device,  by 
William  Nicholson.] 

Issued  in  navy  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows  :  Muslin  |  George  |  Moore  (enclosed 
within  a  thin  border  with  scallop-shaped  design  at 
top  and  bottom  in  gilt)  |  Heinemann  On  front  cover 
a  large  elongated  panelled  design  enclosed  within  a 
two-line  border  in  blind.  On  back  cover,  in  lower 
right-hand  corner,  publisher's  device  (by  James 
McNeill  Whistler)  in  blind.  Top  and  fore-edges  cut, 
lower  edges  uncut.     White  end-papers. 


263 


(36)     ^ 

The  Brook  Kerith  :  1916 

The  Brook  Kerith  |  A  Syrian  Story  |  By  George 
Moore  |  Printed  for  T.  Werner  Laurie  Ltd.  |  By  the 
Riverside  Press  Ltd.,  Edinburgh  |  1916 

Demy  8vo;  pp.  viii  -j-  472,  consisting  of  Blank  page, 
p.  [i]  ;  p.  [ii]  is  occupied  by  a  list  of  three  books  By 
George  Moore,  printed  within  a  thin  one-line  border  ; 
Half-title,  The  Brook  Kerith  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ; 
Title-page,  as   above    (verso    blank),   pp.   [v,  vi]  ;    A 
Dedication    (verso    blank),   pp.    [vii,   viii]  ;   Text,   pp. 
1-471 ;  Printers'  imprint.  The  Riverside  Press  Limited, 
Edinburgh,  in  centre  of  p.  [472]. 
Issued  half  bound,  with  tan  imitation  leather  back  and 
corners,  and  conventional  marbled  paper  sides.     On 
the  back  are  five  raised  bands  and  three  medallions 
in   blind,  and    printed   paper   name   and   title-label, 
lettered   across   in   black   as    follows :    The  \  Brook  | 
Kerith   |    [ornament]    |    George   \   Moore   \    T.    Werner 
Laurie,  Ltd.  \  London     Top  edges  cut,  fore-edges  un- 
cut and  unopened,  lower  edges  uncut.     White  end- 
papers.    Issued  without  a  duplicate  paper  name  and 
title- label. 
Owing  to  the  orders  coming  in  so  rapidly,  the  publishers 
had  to  increase  the  size  of  the  edition,  and  as  the  binders 
had  saved  only  a  certain  amount  of  tan  imitation  leather, 
they  were  instructed  to  use  the  nearest  material  they  could 
find  to  bind  the  balance  ;   these  remaining  copies  were 
bound  in  half  brown  pegamoid. 

Two  hundred  copies  of  the  first  edition  were  bound  in 
light  grey  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  black  as 
follows  :  The  \  Brook  \  Kerith  |  [a  line]  |  George  \  Moore  | 
T.  Werner  |  Laurie  Ltd.  Publishers'  monogram  within  a 
circle  in  black  in  centre  of  back  cover  ;  front  cover  blank. 
All  edges  (the  leaves  measuring  8j  by  5J  ins.)  cut.  This 
issue  was  put  into  grey  cloth  for  the  exclusive  use  of  the 
Circulating  Libraries. 


264 

(37) 

The  Brook  Kerith  :  1916 

Edition  de  Luxe 

The  Brook  Kerith  |  A  Syrian  Story  |  By  George 
Moore  |  Printed  for  T.  Werner  Laurie  Ltd.  |  By  the 
Riverside  Press  Ltd.,  Edinburgh  |  1916 

Demy  8vo  ;  pp.  x  -f-  472,  consisting  of  Blank  leaf^  pp. 
[i,  ii]  ;  Half-title,  The  Brook  Kerith  (verso  blank),  pp. 
[ill,  iv]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v, 
vi]  ;  A  Dedication  (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii,  viii] ; 
Certificate  of  Issue,  as  follows :  The  Brook  Kerith  \ 
[a  line]  |  This  edition  de  luxe  consists  of  |  250  copies, 

numbered  and  signed.  \  This  is  No (followed 

by  the  number  of  copy  written  in  ink)  (followed  by 
the  author's  signature  in  ink :  George  Moore)  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [ix,  x] ;  Text,  pp.  1-471 ;  printers' imprint. 
The  Riverside  Press  Limited,  Edinburgh  in  centre  of 
p.  [472]. 

Issued  in  light  grey  boards,  with  cream  parchment  back, 
with  paper  name  and  title-label  on  back  at  top 
lettered  across  in  royal  blue  as  follows  :  Edition  de 
Luxe  I  The  |  Brook  |  Kerith  |  [ornament]  |  George  \ 
Moore  |  T.  Werner  Laurie,  Ltd.  |  London  (printed 
within  a  one-line  border).  Top  and  fore-edges  un- 
opened, lower  edges  uncut.     Grey  end-papers. 

(38)        1/ 

Lewis  Seymour  and  Some  Women  :  1917 

Lewis  Seymour  |  and  Some  Women  |  By  |  George 
Moore  |  [Publisher's  device,  hy  William  Nicholsoii]  \ 
London  |  William  Heinemann 

Crown  8vo;  pp.  xii  -|-  310,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Lewis  Seymour  |  and  Some  Women  (with  list  of  Works 
hy  George  Moore  on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii],  Title-page,  as 
above  (with  London :    William   Heinemann,     1917.  at 


265 

foot  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Preface,  pp.   v-xi ;  p.  [x] 
blank;  Text,  pp.  [lJ-310.     Printers'  imprint  at  foot 
of  p.  310  as  follows  :  Billing  and  Sons,  Ltd.,  Printers, 
Guildford,  England     At  end  of  some  copies  there  is  a 
blank  leaf  following  p.  310. 
Issued  in  navy  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
gilt  as  follows :  Lewis  \  Seymour  |  and  |  Some  |  Women  | 
George  \  Moore  (enclosed  within  a  thin  border  with 
scallop-shaped   design    at  top  and  bottom  in  gilt)  | 
Heinemann     On  front  cover  a  large  elongated  panelled 
design  enclosed  within  a   two-line  border  in  blind. 
On  back  cover,  in  lower  right-hand  corner,  publisher's 
device  (the  Whistler  variety)  in  blind.     Top  and  fore- 
edges  cut,  lower  edges  uncut.     White  end-papers. 
At  end  of  some  copies  there  is  a   16-page  numbered 
catalogue  (undated)  of  A  List  of  \  Current  Fiction  |  published 
by  I  JVilliam  Heinemann  |  at  21  Bedford  St.,  London  W.C. 

(39) 

A  Story-Teller's  Holiday  :    1918 

A  Story-Teller's  |  Holiday  |  By  |  George  Moore  | 
London  |  Privately  Printed  for  Subscribers  Only  by  | 
Cum^nn  Sqaw  eolAif  r\A  \\  ^ipe^nn  |  1918 

Demy  8vo  ;  pp.  x  -|-  356,  consisting  of  Blank  leaf,  pp. 
[i,  ii] ;  Half-title,  A  Story-Teller  s  Holiday  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  A  Leave-  Taking,  p.  [vii  (in- 
correctly paged  v)] ;  p.  [viii]  blank ;  Certificate  of 
Issue,  as  follows  :  A  Story-Teller  s  |  Holiday  \  [a  line]  | 
This   edition   consists   of  1000   copies,  |  numbered   and 

signed.    \    This    is   No (each   copy   numbered 

automatically)  |  (signed  in  ink  by  the  author :)  George 
Moore  (verso  blank),  pp.  [ix,  x]  ;  Text,  pp.  1-355  ; 
printers'  imprint.  The  Riverside  Press  Limited,  Edin- 
burgh at  foot  of  p.  355  ;  p.   [356]  blank. 

On  p.  48  the  second  and  third  words  in  line  14,  viz. 
Nouvelle  Athenes,  are  obliterated. 

Issued  in  pale  blue  boards  with  cream  parchment  back. 


266 

with    white    paper    name   and    title-label    on    back 

lettered  across  in  brown  as  follows  :  A  \  Story -Teller  s  \ 

Holiday    |    [ornament]    |    George  |   Moore  \  Privately  \ 

Printed     Top  edges  unopened,  fore-edges  uncut  and 

unopened,  lower  edges  uncut.     Pale  blue  end-papers 

to  match  the  sides. 

'  A    Story-Teller's    Holiday '    was    issued   for    private 

circulation  by  the   Society  for  Irish    Folk-Lore,  for   sale 

to  subscribers  through  the  Society's   agents,  T.  Werner 

Laurie,  Ltd. 

(40) 

Avowals  :  1919 

Avowals  I   By  |   George  JMoore  |   London  |   Privately 

Printed  for  Subscribers  Only  by  |  CtimAnn  Se^n  eot-Aif 

riA  ti  ^t\e-Ann  |  1919 

Demy  8vo;  pp.  x-|-312,  consisting  of  2  blank  leaves, 
pp.  [i-iv]  ;  Half-title,  Avowals  (with  By  George 
Moore  |  {Privately  Printed)  \  The  [sic]  Story-Teller  s 
Holiday  .  July  1918  |  Avowals  ....  September  1919  | 
Abelard  and  Heldise  .  .  {In  preparation)  on  verso),  pp. 
[v,  vi]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii, 
viii] ;  Certificate  of  Issue,  as  follows :  Avowals  |  [a 
line]  I  This   edition   consists  of  1000  copies  \  numbered 

and  signed.  \  This  is  No (each  copy  numbered 

automatically)  |  (signed  in  ink  by  the  author  :)  George 
Moore  (verso  blank),  pp.  [ix,  x] ;  Text,  pp.  1-310; 
printers'  imprint,  The  Riverside  Press  Limited, 
Edinburgh  in  centre  of  p.   [311]  ;  p.   [312]  blank. 

Issued  in  pale  blue  boards  with  cream  parchment  back, 
with  white  paper  name  and  title-label  on  back 
lettered  across  in  sepia  as  follows :  Avowals  \ 
[ornament]  |  George  |  Moore  \  Privately  Printed  Top 
edges  unopened,  fore-edges  uncut  and  unopened, 
lower  edges  uncut.  Pale  blue  end-papers  to  match 
the  sides.     Uniform  with  '  A  Story-Teller's  Holiday.' 

*  Avowals '  was  issued  for  private  circulation  by  the 
Society  for  Irish  Folk-Lore,  for  sale  to  subscribers  through 
the  Society's  agents,  T.  Werner  Laurie,  Ltd. 


267 

(41) 
EsTHEE  Waters  :   1920 

Esther  Waters  |  By  |  George  Moore  |  London  | 
Privately  Printed  for  Subscribers  Only  by  |  CtimAnn 
Se^n  eol,Air  n^  ti  ^|\eAnn  |  1920 

Demy  8vo;  pp.  x-{-416,  consisting  of  Blank  leaf,  pp. 
[i^  ii]  ;  Half-title,  Esther  Waters  (with  a  list  of  books 
Bi/  George  Moore  |  {Privately  Printed)  on  verso),  pp. 
[iii,  iv] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi]  ; 
Certificate  of  Issue,  as  follows :  Esther  Waters  |  [a 
line]  I  This   edition   consists   of  750   copies  \  numbered 

and  signed.  |  This  is  No (each  copy  numbered 

automatically)  |  (signed  in  ink  by  the  author  :)  George 
Moore  (verso  blank),  pp.  [vii,  viii] ;  Epistle  Dedicatory , 
pp.  [ix,  X  (incorrectly  numbered  v,  vi)].  [The  prelimi- 
naries consist  of  a  half-sheet  (4  leaves),  with  the 
Certificate  of  Issue  (1  leaf)  pasted  between  the  Title- 
page  and  Epistle  Dedicatory.']  Text,  pp.  [1]-415 ; 
printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  415  as  follows :  Billing 
and  Sons,  Ltd.,  Piinters,  Guildford,  England. ;  p.  [416] 
blank. 

Issued  in  pale  blue  boards  with  white  parchment  back, 
with  cream  paper  name  and  title-label  on  back  lettered 
across  in  brown  as  follows :  Esther  |  Waters  \  [orna- 
ment] I  George  \  Moore  \  Privately  Printed  Top  edges 
cut,  fore-edges  unopened,  lower  edges  trimmed. 
Pale  blue  end-papers  to  match  the  sides. 

'  Esther  Waters '  was  issued  for  private  circulation  by 
the  Society  for  Irish  Folk-Lore,  for  sale  to  subscribers 
through  the  Society's  agents,  T.  Werner  Laurie,  Ltd. 


(42)      ^ 
The  Coming  of  Gabrielle  :   1920 

The  Coming  of  |  Gabrielle  |  A  Comedy  |  By  |  George 
Moore  |  London  |  Privately  Printed  for  Subscribers 
Only  by  |  Cum^nn  5eAW  eoUif  x\a  n  ^m^^aww  \  1920 


268 

Demy  8vo  ;  pp.  xxxii -|- Certificate  of  Issue -f- 148, 
consisting  of  Half-title,  The  Coming  of  Gahrielle 
(verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with 
a  list  of  books  By  George  Moore  \  (Privately  Printed) 
in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Certificate  of  Issue, 
as  follows  :  The  |  Coming  of  Gahrielle  |  [a  line]  |  This 
edition  consists  of  1000  copies  |  numbered  and  signed.  | 
This  is  No (each  copy  numbered  automati- 
cally) I  (signed  in  ink  by  the  author  :)  George  Moore 
(verso  blank)  [The  Certificate  of  Issue  is  a  separate 
leaf  pasted  between  the  Title-page  and  first  page  of 
Preface,  and  is  not  reckoned  in  the  preliminaries]  ; 
Preface,  pp.  v-xxx ;  p.  [xxxi]  blank ;  People  i?i  the 
Play,  p.  [xxxii]  ;  Text,  pp.  1-146  ;  printers*  imprint. 
The  Riverside  Press  Limited,  Edinburgh  in  centre  of 
p.  [147].  Pp.  [50]  and  [148]  blank. 
Issued  in  pale  blue  boards  with  cream  parchment  back, 
with  white  paper  name  and  title-label  on  back  lettered 
across  in  grey  as  follows  :  The  \  Coming  |  of  \  Gabrielle  | 
[ornament]  |  George  |  Moore  |  Privately  |  Printed  Top 
edges  unopened,  fore-edges  uncut  and  unopened, 
lower  edges  uncut.  Pale  blue  end-papers  to  match 
the  sides. 
'  The  Coming  of  Gabrielle '  was  issued  for  private 
circulation  by  the  Society  for  Irish  Folk-Lore,  for  sale 
to  subscribers  through  the  Society's  agents,  T.  Werner 
Laurie,  Ltd. 

(43)  ^ 

HtLOiSE    AND    ABi:LARD  I    1921 

Heloise  and  Abelard  |  By  |  George  Moore  |  In  Two 
Volumes  |  Volume  I  [Volume  //]  |  London  |  Privately 
Printed  for  Subscribers  Only  by  |  CumAtin  SeAW  eotxMf 
x\A  ti  6i|\ex\nn  |  1921 

2  Vols.,  Demy  8vo 

Vol.  I,  pp.  x  -f-  264,  consisting  of  p.  [i]  with  prmters* 
signature  "  i. — a  "  in  bottom  left-hand  corner ;  pp.  [ii- 
iv]  blank ;  Half-title,  Heloise  and  Abelard  (with  a  list 


269 

of  books  By  George  Moore  |  {Limited  Editions)  in  centre 
of  verso),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with 
Dedication  in  French  A  Madame  X  in  centre  of 
verso),  pp.  [vii,  viii]  ;  Certificate  of  Issue,  as  follows : 
Heldise  and  Abe  lard]  |  a  line]  |  This  edition  consists 
of  one  thousand  j  Jive  hundred  copies,  numbered  and  | 

signed.  |  This  is  No (each  copy  numbered 

automatically)  |  (signed  in  ink  by  the  author :)  George 
Moore  (verso  blank),  pp.  [ix,  x]  ;  Text,  pp.  1-262 ; 
printers'  imprint,  'The  Riverside  Press  Limited, 
Edinburgh  in  centre  of  p.   [263] ;  p.  [264]   blank. 

Vol.  II,  pp.  256,  consisting  of  Half-title,  Heldise  and 
Abelard,  with  printers'  signature  "  ii. — a  "  in  bottom 
left-hand  corner  (verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  2]  ;  Title-page, 
as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [3,  4] ;  Text,  pp.  5-252 ; 
printers'  imprint,  The  Riverside  Press  Limited,  Edinburgh 
in  centre  of  p.  [253] ;  pp.  [254-256]  blank. 

Issued  in  pale  blue  boards  with  cream  parchment  back, 
with  white  paper  name  and  title-label  on  back  lettered 
across  in  brown  as  follows :  Heldise  |  and  \  Abelard.  | 
[one  star  (two  stars  on  Volume  II)]  |  George  \  Moore  \ 
Privately  |  Printed  Top  edges  unopened,  fore-edges 
uncut  and  unopened,  lower  edges  uncut.  Pale  blue 
end-papers  to  match  the  sides.  Uniform  with  'A 
Story-Teller's  Holiday*  and  'Avowals.' 

'  Heloise  and  Abelard '  was  issued  for  private  circulation 
by  the  Society  for  Irish  Folk-Lore,  for  sale  to  subscribers 
through  the  Society's  agents,  T.  Werner  Laurie,  Ltd. 


(44) 

Fragments  from  Heloise  &  Abj^lard  :  1921 

Fragments  from  |  Heloise  &  Abelard  |  By  George 
Moore  |  London  |  Privately  Printed  for  Subscribers 
by  I  CtrniAtin  Se^n  eolAip  tia  Ii  6i|iex3knn  |  1921 

Demy  8vo ;  pp.  24,  consisting  of  Title-page,  as  above 
(verso  blank),  pp.  [1,  2] ;  Sonnet  in  French,  with 
heading  in  italic  capitals  as  follows  :  La  Reponse  de 


270 

Georges  Moore  en  |  forme  de  Sonnet  a  son  ami  Edouard  | 
Dujardin  (T  Auteur  de  "  La  Source  \  du  Fleuve  Chretien  ") 
qui  I'avait  |  invite  a  Fontainebleau  |  pour  manger  de  \ 
Valose,  p.  3  ;  p.  [4]  blank  ;  Preface,  pp.  5-7  ;  p.  [8] 
blank ;  Text,  pp.  9-23  ;  printers'  imprint  in  centre 
of  p.  [24]  as  follows :  Printed  by  |  The  Riverside  Press 
Limited,  Edinburgh 
Issued  in  pale  blue  paper  wrappers,  lettered  across  the 
front  at  top  in  dark  brown  as  follows  :  Fragments 
from  I  Helo'ise  Sc  Abelard  \  By  George  Moore  Pp. 
[2,  3,  and  4]  of  cover  blank.  Sewn  with  a  double 
stick  of  pale  blue  imitation  embroidery  silk.  Top 
edges  unopened,  fore-edges  uncut  and  unopened, 
lower  edges  uncut,  with  the  wrappers  overlapping. 
There  is  no  Certificate  of  Issue.     Two  thousand  copies 

were  printed. 

^  Fragments  from   Heloise  &  Abelard '   was  issued  for 

private   circulation   by  the    Society  for  Irish  Folk- Lore, 

for    sale    to    subscribers    through    the    Society's    agents, 

T.  Werner  Laurie,  Ltd. 


(45) 

Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  :  1921 

'Moore  Hall'  Edition 

Memoirs  |  of  My  Dead  Life  |  of  |  Galanteries  ,  Medi- 
tations I  and  Remembrances  |  Soliloquies  or  Advice  to 
Lovers,  |  — with  many  miscellaneous  Reflections  |  on 
Virtue  &  Merit  |  By  |  George  Moore  of  Moore  Hall 
Co  Mayo  |  [  Woodcut  Illustration]  \  London  |  Published 
by  Heinemann. 

Demy  8vo ;  pp.  xx  -)-  292,  consisting  of  Half-title, 
Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  (with  list  of  Works  by 
George  Moore  on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  [Frontispiece : 
Daguerreotype  Portrait,  in  colours,  of  George  Moore  at 
the  age  of  ten]  ;  Title-page,  as  above  (with  London  : 
William  Heinemann,  1921.  at  foot  of  verso),  pp.  [iii, 
iv]  ;  Certificate  of  Issue,  as  follows  :  Memoirs  of  My 


271 

Dead  Life  \  [a  line]  |  This  edition,  printed  from  hand- 
set I  type  on  English  hand-made  paper,  |  is  limited  to 
one  thousand  and  thirty  [  copies,  of  which  one  thousand 
are  for  |  sale.  |  This  is  No (each  copy  num- 
bered in  ink)  |  (signed  in  ink  by  the  author  :)  George 
Moore  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi]  ;  Epistle  Dedicatory,  to 
My  dear  Gosse,  pp.  vii-ix ;  p.  [x]  blank ;  Prelude,  pp. 
xi-xviii ;  Table  of  Contents  (verso  blank),  pp.  [xix, 
xx]  ;  Text,  pp.  [l]-290  ;  at  end  of  text :  The  End  of 
this  Volume. ;  printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  p.  290  as 
follows :  [a  line]  |  Printed  in  Great  Britain  by  Richard 
Clay  Sf  So?is,  Limited,  Bungay,  Suffolk. ;  pp.  [291,  292] 
blank. 
Issued  in  pale  blue  boards  with  white  parchment  back, 
with  white  paper  name  and  title-label  on  back 
lettered  across  in  brown  as  follows  :  Memoirs  |  of  My  | 
Dead  Life  \  George  Moore  |  Heinemann  Top  edges 
unopened,  fore-edges  uncut  and  unopened,  lower 
edges  uncut.  Pale  blue  end-papers  to  match  the 
sides. 


BOOKS    WITH   INTRODUCTIONS 
BY   GEORGE   MOORE 

(46) 

Piping  Hot  ! :  1885 

Piping  Hot !  |  (Pot-Bouille.)  |  A  Realistic  Novel.  | 
By  I  ifimile  Zola.  |  Translated  from  the  63rd  French 
Edition.  |  Illustrated  with  Sixteen  Page  Engravings,  | 
from  Designs  by  Georges  Bellenger.  |  London :  |  Vize- 
telly  &  Co.,  42  Catherine  Street,  Strand.  |  1885. 

Thick  crown  8vo  ;  pp.  ii  -j-  xviii  -j-  9-384,  consisting  of 
2  pages  of  advertisements,  with  Press  Notices,  of  New 
Realistic  Novels.  .  .  .  A  Mummer  s  Wife.  By  George 
Moore,  .  .  .  (not  reckoned  in  pagination) ;  Half-title, 
Piping-Hot  !  (with  list  of  Zola's  Realistic  Novels,  on 
verso),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  [Frontispiece  :  Valerie  in  hysterics 
at  the  Wedding  Ball.  \  p.  160.  (not  reckoned  in 
pagination)]  ;  [Illustrated  Title-page  :  Piping  Hot  !  | 
{Pot-Bouille.^  I  [Illustration]  |  Jubilation  of  the  Jos- 
ser ands  at  Berthe's  Engagement,  p.  102.  \  By  Emile 
Zola,  (not  reckoned  in  pagination)] ;  Title-page,  as 
ahove  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Preface,  (by  George 
Moore),  pp.  [v]-xviii ;  Text,  pp.  [9]-383  ;  p.  [384] 
blank.  At  end  of  volume  there  is  a  20-page 
numbered  illustrated  catalogue  of  Vizetelly  S^  Co.'s 
Nerv  Books,  \  and  New  Editions,  dated  December,  188Jf.. 
There  is  no  printer's  imprint. 

Signatures  :  a  (8  leaves) ;  a  (6  leaves) ;  b — 2a  in  eights. 

The  illustrations,  of  which  there  is  no  list,  face  pp. 
[Frontispiece  and  Illustrated  Title-page],  24,  50,  61, 
88,  98,  134,  168,  190,  192,  246,  282,  288,  318,  and 
358. 


273 

Issued  in  brown  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  as 
follows :  Piping  |  Hot  /  |  Emile  Zola  |  Illustrated  |  Vize- 
tellif  Sf  Co  with  lines  in  blind  at  top  and  bottom  ;  and 
on  front  in  gilt  as  follows :  Piping  Hot !  \  A  Realistic 
Novel  I  [Illustration  in  gilt  on  brick-red  background, 
surrounded  by  ornamental  border  in  black]  |  By 
^rnile  Zola.  |  Illustrated.  On  back  cover,  three-line 
border  in  blind.  Top  and  fore-edges  unopened, 
lower  edges  cut.  Flowered  end-papers  of  daisies  on 
brown  background. 


(47) 

The  Rush  for  the  Spoil  :  1885 

The  I  Rush  for  the  Spoil  |  (La  Curee).  |  A  Realistic 
Novel.  I  By  |  Emile  Zola.  |  Translated  without  Abridg- 
ment from  the  34th  French  Edition.  |  Illustrated  with 
Twelve  Page  Engravings.  |  London  :  |  Vizetelly  &  Co., 
42  Catherine  Street,  Strand.  |  1885. 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  vi  +  viii  -j-  9-290,  consisting  of  Half- 
title,  The  Rusk  for  the  Spoil  |  (La  Curee).  \  A  Realistic 
Novel,  (with  a  list  of  Zola's  Powerful  Realistic  Novels. 
on  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Illustrated  Title-page :  The  | 
Rush  for  the  Spoil  |  {La  Curee).  \  [Illustration]  j 
Maxime  discovers  his  Father  at  the  Maison  Doree.  |  p. 
120.  I  By  Emile  Zola,  (verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Title- 
page,  as  above  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Preface. 
(signed  at  end:  George  Moore.),  pp.  [i]-viii;  Text, 
pp.  [9]-290.     There  is  no  printer's  imprint. 

Issued  in  royal  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in 
rust-red  as  follows :  The  |  Rush  |  for  the  \  Spoil  | 
Emile  Zola  \  Illustrated  \  Vizetelly  S^  C?  with  four  lines 
at  top  and  bottom,  and  across  the  front  in  rust-red  as 
follows :  The  Rush  for  |  the  Spoil  \  A  Realistic  Novel  | 
Emile  Zola,  with  four  lines  at  top  and  bottom.  Back 
cover  blank.  Top  edges  unopened,  fore  and  lower 
edges  trimmed.     Flowered  end-papers. 


274 


(48) 

Piping  Hot!:   1886 

Large  Paper  Illustrated  Edition 

Piping  Hot!  |  (Pot-Bouille.)  |  A  Realistic  Novel.  | 
[^Illustration,  with  lettering  below  as  follows:  The  Jos- 
serands'  Delight  at  Berthe's  Engagement.]  |  By  Emile 
Zola.  I  Illustrated  with  104  Engravings  from  Designs 
by  French  Artists.  |  London:  |  Vizetelly  &  Co.,  42, 
Catherine  Street,  Strand.  |  1886 

Royal  8vo  ;  pp.  xvi  -j-  314,  consisting  of  Half-title,  Piping 
Hot !  I  {Pot-Bouille.)  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Frontis- 
piece, Valerie  in  Hysterics  at  the  Wedding  Ball.  |  P.  129. 
(recto  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  List  of  [47]  Page  Engravings. 
pp.  [vii,  viii] ;  Preface,  signed  at  end :  George  Moore. 
pp.  [ix]-xvi;  Text,  pp.  [1]-312  ;  p.  [313]  is  occupied 
by  a  list  of  Zola's  Realistic  Novels. ;  p.  [314]  blank. 
There  is  no  printer's  imprint. 
Issued  in  light  peacock  blue  cloth,  lettered  across  the 
back  in  gilt  as  follows :  Piping  |  Hot  /  |  £mile  Zola  | 
Illustrated  |  Edition  |  Vizetelly  8^  C"-  with  three  lines  in 
dark  blue  at  top  and  bottom;  and  lettered  on  front 
cover  as  follows :  Piping  Hot !  (in  gilt)  |  A  Realistic 
Novel  (in  brick  red)  |  [Illustration  in  gilt  on  dark 
blue  background,  surrounded  by  ornamental  border 
in  gilt]  I  By  £mile  Zola,  (in  brick-red)  |  Profusely 
Illustrated,  (in  gilt),  the  whole  surrounded  by  an 
ornamental  border  in  dark  blue.  On  back  cover, 
ornamental  border  with  publishers'  device  in  centre 
in  blind.  All  edges  cut.  Conventional  figured  end- 
papers printed  in  brown  on  white  background. 

(49) 

Poor  Folk:   1894 

[Illustration,  by  Aubrey  Beardsley]  \  Poor  P'olk  |  trans- 
lated I  from  I  the   Russian  |  of  |  F.  Dostoievsky  |  by  | 


275 

Lena  Milman  |  with  an  |  Introduction  |  by  |  George 
Moore  |  London  |  Elkin  Mathews  |  and  John  Lane  | 
[A  line]  \  Roberts  Brothers  |  Boston  |  1894 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  xx  +  192,  consisting  of  Half-title,  Poor 
Folk  (with  Copyrighted  in  the  United  States  |  All  rights 
reserved  in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Title-page,  as 
above  (with  printers'  imprint  at  foot  of  verso  as 
follows :  Edinburgh :  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to 
Her  Majesty),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  p.  [v]  is  occupied  by  the 
device  of  '  The  Keynote  Series '  ;  p.  [vi]  blank ; 
Preface  (by  George  Moore),  pp.  vii-xx;  Text,  pp. 
[1]-191  ;  p.  [192]  blank;  Printers'  imprint  at  foot  of 
p.  191  as  follows :  [a  line]  |  Pnnted  by  T.  and  A.  Con- 
stable, Printers  to  Her  Majesty  |  at  the  Edinburgh  Uni- 
versity Press  At  end  of  volume  there  is  a  16-page 
numbered  List  of  Books  \  in  |  Belles  Lettres,  dated 
(on  p.  [3])  March  1894  The  title  of  the  book.  Poor 
Folk,  is  printed  in  red  ;  the  other  lines  are  in  black. 

Issued  in  yellow  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 
as  follows :  Poor  |  Folk  \  [ornament]  |  Fedor  \  Dostoi- 
evsky I  [key  in  black]  |  [ornament]  |  Elkin  |  Mathews  | 
and  John  |  Lane  [ornament].  On  front  cover,  design 
in  black  by  Aubrey  Beardsley,  and  lettered  across  in 
black  as  follows  :  Poor  Folk  \  A  Novel  \  by  |  Fedor 
Dostoievsky  \  Translated  \  from  the  Russian  \  by  |  Lena 
Milman  \  With  |  A  Critical  Introduction  |  by  |  George 
Moore  In  centre  of  back  cover,  key  design  with 
date  1894.  Top  and  fore-edges  unopened,  lower 
edges  uncut.     White  end-papers. 

This  is  Volume  II  of 'The  Keynote  Series.* 

(50) 
The  Heather  Field  and  Maeve  :  1899 

The  Heather  Field  |  and  |  Maeve  |  By  |  Edward  Mar- 
tyn  I  Author  of  "  Morgante  the  Lesser "  |  With  an 
Introduction  by  |  George  Moore  |  [Publishers'  device]  \ 
London  |  Duckworth  &  Co.  |  3  Henrietta  Street,  W.C.  | 

MDCCCXCIX 
T  2 


276 

Pott  4to;  pp.  xxviii -f-  132^  consisting  of  Half-title,  The 
Heather  Field  \  and  \  Maeve  (with  All  Rights  ReseiDed. 
in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [i,  ii]  ;  Title-page,  as  above 
(verso  blank),  pp.  [iii,  iv]  ;  Dedication :  /  Dedicate 
these  Two  Plays  to  \  George  Moore,  W.  B.  Yeats  \  and  | 
Arthur  Symons.  \  E.  M.  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ; 
Introduction  (signed  at  end  :  George  Moore),  pp.  vii- 
xxviii ;  Fly-title  to  The  Heather  Meld  \  [a  line]  |  A 
Play  in  Three  Acts  (with  Dramatis  Personce  in  centre 
of  verso),  pp.  [1,  2] ;  Text  of  'The  Heather  Field,' 
pp.  3-83  ;  p.  [84]  blank ;  Fly-title  to  Maeve  \  [a  line]  | 
A  Psychological  Drama  in  Two  Acts  (with  Dramatis 
Personce  in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [85,  86] ;  Text  of 
'Maeve,*  pp.  87-129;  Printers'  imprint  in  centre  of 
p.  [130]  as  follows :  Printed  hy  |  Tumhull  and  Spears,  | 
Edinburgh',  pp.  [131,  132]  are  occupied  by  advertise- 
ments of  Messrs  Duckworth  S^-  Co.'s  |  Nefv  Books.  | 
Modern  Plays. 

Issued  in  light  green  cloth,  lettered  up  the  back  in 
brown  as  follows :  [two  Shamrock  designs]  The  Heather 
Field  [two  Shamrock  designs],  and  across  the  front  in 
brown  as  follows  :  The  Heather  Field  \  and  Maeve  [two 
Shamrock  designs]  |  By  Edward  Martyn  \  [three  Sham- 
rock designs]  |  With  an  Introduction  hy  |  George  Moore 
[two  ornaments].  Back  cover  blank.  Top  edges 
unopened,  fore  and  lower  edges  trimmed.  White 
end-papers. 

(51) 

An  Irish  Gentleman  :  [1913] 

An  Irish  Gentleman  |  George  Henry  Moore  |  His 
Travel  |  His  Racing  |  His  Politics  |  By  |  Colonel  Mau- 
rice George  Moore,  C.B.  |  With  a  Preface  |  by  |  George 
Moore  |  [Heraldic  arms,  with  inscription  in  Irish^  | 
London  |  T.  Werner  Laurie  Ltd.  |  Clifford's  Inn 

Demy  8vo ;  pp.  xxviii  -|-  404,  consisting  of  Blank  leaf, 
pp.  [i,  ii];  Half-title,  An  Irish  Gentleman  |  [a  line]  | 
George   Henry  Moore  \  [a  line]  |  [Publishers'  device] 


277 

(with  a  list  of  Books  of  Travel,  enclosed  within  a  one- 
line  border,  on  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  [Portrait  of  Col. 
Maurice  Moore,  C.B.] ;  Title-page,  as  above  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Preface,  pp.  vii-xx ;  Table  of 
Contents,  pp.  xxi-xxvi ;  List  of  Illustrations,  p.  xxvii ; 
p.  [xxviii]  blank ;  Text,  pp.  1-385  ;  p.  [386]  blank ; 
Index,  pp.  387-396.  Pp.  [397-404]  are  occupied  by 
advertisements  of  books.  At  foot  of  p.  396  is  the 
following  printers'  imprint  :  The  Northumberland 
Press[,']  Thornton  Street,  Keivcastle-upon-Tyne  A  small 
slip,  bearing  the  following  Note :  What  the  Prefacer 
writes  regarding  the  \  mode  of  his  fathers  death  must  be 
taken  |  as  expressing  his  wishes,  and  not  the  facts.  |  The 
Author,  is  inserted  between  the  Title-page  and  first 
page  of  Preface. 
Issued  in  dark  red  cloth,  lettered  across  the  back  in  gilt 
as  follows  :  An  |  Iiish  |  Gentleman  |  George  |  Henry  | 
Moore  \  [Shamrock  design]  |  M.  G.  Moore  \  T.  Werner 
Laurie  V'l  (enclosed  within  a  one-line  border  in  gilt), 
and  across  the  front  in  gilt  as  follows  :  An  Irish 
Gentleman  \  George  Henry  Moore  |  His  Travels  \  His 
Racing  |  His  Politics  |  [Shamrock  design]  |  M.  G.  Moore 
(enclosed  within  a  one-line  border  in  gilt).  In  centre 
of  back  cover,  publishers'  device  in  blind.  All  edges 
cut.     White  end-papers. 

(52) 

The  Genius  of  the  Marne  :  1919 

The  I  Genius  of  the  Marne  |  A  Play  in  Three  Scenes  | 
By  I  John  Lloyd  Balderston  |  With  an  Introduction  | 
by  I  George   Moore  |  Nicholas  L.  Brown  |  New  York 

MCMXIX 

Crown  8vo ;  pp.  ii  -f  xx  +  90,  consisting  of  Blank  leaf 
(not  reckoned  in  pagination),  pp.  [i,  ii] ;  Half-title, 
The  Geniiis  of  the  Marne  (verso  blank),  pp.  [i,  ii] ; 
Title-page  (with  Copyright,  1919,  by  \  Nicholas  L. 
Brown  in  centre  of  verso),  pp.  [iii,  iv] ;  Dedication 
To  a  Lady  .  .  .  (verso  blank),  pp.  [v,  vi] ;  Fly-title  to 


278 

Introduction  |  hy  |  George  Moore  (verso  blank),  pp. 
[vii,  viii] ;  Introduction,  pp.  ix-xv ;  p.  [xvi]  blank ; 
List  of  Characters  (verso  blank),  pp.  [xvii,  xviii] ;  Fly- 
title  to  the  Play,  The  Genius  of  the  Marne  (verso 
blank),  pp.  [xix,  xx] ;  Text,  pp.  1-86 ;  pp.  [87-90] 
blank.     There  is  no  printer's  imprint. 

Issued  in  dark  grey  boards  with  pale  blue  paper  name 
and  title-label  on  back  lettered  across  in  blue  as 
follows  :  [a  line]  |  The  |  Genius  |  of  the  |  Marne  | 
Balderston  |  George  Allen  |  S^  Unwin  Ltd.  |  [a  line],  and 
pale  blue  paper  name  and  title-label  in  centre  of 
front  cover,  lettered  across  in  blue  as  follows :  The  | 
Genius  |  of  the  |  Marne  |  John  L.  Balderston  \  Introduc- 
tion hy  I  George  Moore  Back  cover  blank.  All  edges 
cut.     White  end-papers. 

There  is  a  printed  slip  inserted  between  the  half-title 
and  title-page,  lettered  in  red  as  follows  :  This  Book 
is  now  published  hy  |  George  Allen  Sf  Unwin,  Ltd.  | 
Ruskin  House  J  I  40,  Museum  Street,  I  London,  W.C. 


NOTES   ON   THE   VALUES   OF  THE   FIRST  ,,^lt 

EDITIONS   OF  THE   WRITINGS   OF 
GEORGE   MOORE 


1'^ 


(1)  Flowers  of  Passion,  1878.  Excessively  rare  and 
seldom  occurs  for  sale.  At  Sotheby's  (April  5^  1921)  a  copy 
realized  £29  10*.,  and  again  in  the  same  rooms  (July  18, 
1921)  £21.  Anothercopyat  Sotheby's  (December  14, 1921) 
with  a  Poem  in  the  handwriting  of  the  author,  entitled 
The  Ballad  of  Lovers,  and  addressed  To  Fluffie,  consisting 
of  three  8 -line  stanzas  and  Envoy  of  four  lines,  signed  and 
dated  Fehy.  11,  1871,  realized  £50.  '  Flowers  of  Passion,' 
like  all  George  Moore's  first  editions,  has  considerably 
appreciated  in  value  during  the  last  few  years.  Gleeson 
White's  copy  was  catalogued  by  Lionel  Isaacs  in  1899  at 

(2)  Martin  Luther,  1879.  The  last  record  is  at  Anderson's 
Auction  Co.,  New  York  (January  29,  1919),  when  a  copy 
realized  $51.00.  The  present  value  of  the  book  is  probably 
about  £20. 

(3)  Pagan  Poems,  1881.  Excessively  rare,  especially 
with  the  title-page.  At  Anderson's  Auction  Co.,  New 
York  (January  29,  1919),  a  presentation  copy  inscribed 
To  Violet  Fane  from  the  Author,  with  a  3-page  Autograph 
Letter  from  the  author  to  the  recipient,  realized  $540.00. 
The  last  English  record  is  at  Puttick  &  Simpson's  (January 
20,  1915),  when  a  copy  with  the  title-page  realized  £15  : 
the  present  value,  however,  is  about  £60,  or  probably 
more.     Gleeson  White's  copy  was  catalogued  by  Lionel 


280 

Isaacs  in  1899  at  12*.  6rf.  In  1920  Messrs.  Henry  Sotheran 
&  Co.  catalogued  a  presentation  copy  To  William  Rossetti 
with  many  complimenis,  George  Moore,  1881.  On  the  fly-leaf 
of  this  copy  was  the  following  inscription  by  the  late 
W.  M.  Rossetti :  This  hook  raised  some  clamour,  arid  I  think 
it  was  withdrawn  from  circulation,  W.  M.  R.,  1906. 

(4)  A  Modern  Lover,  3  vols.,  1883.  There  is  no  recent 
record  of  a  copy  having  occurred  for  sale  in  the  auction 
rooms.  A  shabby  copy  at  Puttick's  (April  29,  1919) 
realized  £5  5*.  To-day  a  fine  copy  would  probably  realize 
about  £25. 

(5)  A  Mummer  s  Wife,  1885.     Very  scarce,  especially  in    » ^  ^  « 
fine  state.     A  fine  copy  to-day  would  probably  realize  about  ^  '  ' 
£10.     A  copy  at  Sotheby's  (April  b,  1921)  realized  £7.  ,*^  i  "%' 

(6)  Literature  at  Nurse,  1885.  An  uncommon  pamphlet, 
which  seldom  occurs  for  sale.  A  copy  at  Hodgson's 
(May  27,  1921),  inscribed  by  the  author  With  the  wiiters 
compliinents,  realized  £13. 

(7)  A  Drama  in  Muslin^  1886.  A  copy  at  Sotheby's 
(April  5,  1921)  realized  £6  5*.  The  book  is  very  scarce 
in  fine  state. 

(8)  A  Mere  Accident,  1887.  Value  of  a  fine  copy  about /X*'^  • 
£3  3.9.  to  £3  10*.  The  book  usually  occurs  for  sale  in  "'^^ 
shabby  condition. 

(9)  Pamell  and  his  Island,  1887.  A  copy  at  Anderson's 
Auction  Co.,  New  York  (January  29,  1919),  realized 
$17.00.  A  copy  to-day  in  England  would  probably  realize 
£4  to  £4  10*. 

(10)  Confessions  of  a  Yoimg  Man,  1888.  At  Puttick's 
(June  15,  1921)  a  presentation  copy,  with  autograph 
inscription  by  the  author,  realized  £18.  Another  presenta- 
tion copy  (Hodgson's,  March  5,1920)  realized  £22.  Value 
of  an  ordinary  copy  about  £10  to  £12. 

(11)  Spring  Days,  1888.  First  issues  in  the  correct 
binding  are  very  rare.     Value  about  £3  3*.   — •  ^  /  VO  ^V^*<-^ 


281 

(12)  Mike  Fletcher,  1889.  A  copy  at  Hodgson's  (June 
2,  1921)  realized  £5  2*.  6d 

(13)  Impressions  and  Opinions,  1891.    A  copy  at  Dowell's  "^^  -jfff-^  "| 
in  Edinburgh  (February  22,   1921)  realized   £3   12*.  Qd.  tO'/H*?'^^  * 
At  Hodgson's  (November  S,  1921)  a  presentation  copy  from   rf^  _  vv.vw.'ji^ 
the  author  with  autograph  inscription  realized  <£12  12*. 

(U)   Fain  Fortune  [1892\     Value  about  £2. 

(15)  Vain  Fortune,  Large  Paper  Edition  \1892'].  First 
issues  in  white  cloth  are  very  scarce :  value  about  £5  5*. 
Value  of  second  issue  about  <£3  3j. 

(16)  Modem  Painting,  1893.  A  copy  at  Sotheby's  (Aprif^,y  Q^^u^^  ^ 
5,  1921)  realized  £3  5*.  ^  ^^"^  ^ 

(17)  The  Strike  at  Arlingford,  1893.     Value  about  £1. 

(18)  Esther  Waters,  189 Jf.  Copies  in  fine  state  are  rare.  '^"^  /(-S.^-'tv 
Value  of  fine  copy  about  £2.  Copies  in  average  condition  M-<JiP  ^  /^"^"^ 
realize  from  £1  bs.  to  £1  lOs. 

(19)  Celibates,  1895.     This  book  was  'remaindered'  a  ^T  ^  ^Jav^^-^"^- 
few   years  ago  and   is   still   quite  common.     Value   10*.  Z**-"***- 

to  15*. 

(20)  The  Royal  Academy  1895,  \^^b.  There  is  no  record 
of  a  copy  having  been  sold  at  auction.  The  copy  used  for 
the  purposes  of  collation  by  the  present  compiler  was 
kindly  lent  to  him  by  Mr.  C.  Millard,  who  listed  the  same 
in  his  Spring  1922  Catalogue  at  £'2  10*. 

(21)  Evelyn  Innes,  1898.  At  Hodgson's  (March  5, 1920)  i^%  \r^^^ — ' 
a  presentation  copy  from  the  author,  with  autograph  )^jfjU  —  /  ^  >  "3 
inscription,  realized  £\2  5*.     Value  of  an  ordinary  copy 

about  15*.  to  £1. 

(22)  The  Bending  of  the  Bough,  1900.  Value  about  ^^  |a..*-vm^ 
£1  5*.  for  a  fine  copy.  v^j^at-vu^  "    ' 

'— »a^(23)  Sister  Teresa,  1901.     Value  about  15*.  to  £1. 

(24)  The  Untitled  Field  {in  Irish)  [1902].     There  is  no^^    ^- 
record  of  a  copy  having  occurred  for  sale.     Probable  value '  * 
about  £3. 

(25)  The  Untilled  Field,  1903.     Value  about  10*.  to  15*. 


282  ^^ 

(26)  The  Lake,  1905,     Value  about  10^.  to  15*.  /A%(r^^^*^ 

(27)  Kemmiscences  of  the  Impressionist  Painters^  1906, 
Copies  at  Sotheby's  have  reahzed  £3  15*.  (June  29,  1921) 
and  £4  10*.  (December  13,  1920). 

(28)  Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life,  1906,  At  Sotheby's^gij^ ; 
(July  26,  1921)  a  copy  realised  £7  15*.  ^^JUc-^*fituM  -lO^fc  /Q,^/; 

{1^)  Ave,  1911,     Valueabout£2  10*."^A^;^^^6.^-^.    ^Ui 

(30)  The  Apostle,  1911,  A  copy  at  Sotheby's  (April  25,  il  f^^  - 
1921)  realized  £1  12*.,  but  £1  \s.  to  £1  5*.  is  about  theio^  ' 
average  value  of  the  book. 

(31)  Salve,  1912.  Value  about  £1  5*.  Copies  of  the  jiL  ^ 
first  issue,  which  are  extremely  rare,  are  probably  worth  4  jH^ 
about  £6  6*.    /   ^-^v^f^-w^  tlaiiv>M  o^-  jUX^T     uv  i  icC . 

(32)  Esther  Waters:  a  Play,  1913,     Value  about  10*. 

(33)  Elizabeth  Cooper,  1913,     Value  about  15*. 

(34)  Vale,191Jf.,    Copies  of  the^ir*^  issue  are  excessively 
rare,  and  no  copy  is  known  to  have  occurred  for  sale  in  the 
auction  rooms.    £10  is  a  probable  price  for  a  copy.    Value^t/"^ 
of  second  isstie   about  £3  to  £3   10*.     The  third  issue  is  fl^^T'^ 
common:  value  about  15*.   '*x^-v.iv.  Cv^^^.^^     ^.A   iX"SJiig^0ihd  Ma 

(35)  Muslin,  1915,     Value  about  10*.  to  15*.    Cf^^^***^  ^^t-tt^ 

(36)  The  Brook  Kerith,  1916,  Value  about  £1  10*.  to -Z^**^ 
£2  2*.  The  Circulating  Library  issue  is  very  scarce :  nj^^^ij 
value  £3  3*.  to  £4  4*.  ^ '  V  i  »f  «<-  •*  h  ^^r.y  /^  -.h  ^.-rv  4'  -  // v2 

(37)  The  Brook  Kerith,  Edition  de  Luxe,  1916.  Value  V^* 
about  £8  8*. 

(38)  Lewis  Seymour  and  Some  Women,  1917,  Value  about  ^%  h* 
12*.  6d  to  15*.  JtSj  M 

(39)  A  Story-Tellers  Holiday,  1918.     Value  about £5 5*., 

(40)  Avowals,  1919.     Value  £4  4*.  to  £4  12*.  ^d.^J^^j^^p^^^ 

(41)  Esther  Waters,  1920,     Value  about  £2  2*. 

(42)  The  Coming  of  Gabrielle,  1920,    Value  about  £1  10*.  V^  /^ 
to  £1  15*. 

(43)  Helo'ise  and  Ahelard,  2  vols.,  1921,  A  copy  at 
Sotheby's  (July  22,  1921)  realized  £4  6*.  CiUiflA^a^Arfjul' 


0*.  V^  v^ 


U'-i'-. 


J 


283 

(44)  Fragments  from  Heldise  and  Abelard,  1921.     Value 
about  5*. 

(45)  Memoirs   of  My   Dead   Life,   1921.     Value    about 
£3  3*.  to  £4  4*. 

(46)  Piping  Hot  I   1885.     The   book   is   scarce  in   fine 
condition.     Value  of  fine  copy  £1  1*.  to  £1  10*. 

(47)  The  Rusk  for  the  Spoil,  1885.     Value  about  15*. 
to  £1  1*. 

(48)  Piping  Hot !  Large  Paper  Illustrated  Edition,  1886. 
Very  scarce.     Value  about  £2. 

(49)  Poor  Folk,  189^.     Value  about  £1  5*.  to  £1  15*. 

(50)  The  Heather  Field  and  Maeve,  1899.     Value  about 
£1  10*. 

(51)  An  Irish  Gentleman   [191S].     Value  about  7*.   Qd. 
to  10*. 

(52)  The  Genius  of  the  Mame,  1919.     Value  about  5*.  to 
7*.  6rf. 


Printed    in   Grkat    Britain   by 

Richard  Clay  &  Sons,  Limited, 

bungay,  suffolk. 


I 


